


chivalry is dead

by UncrownedKing



Series: chivalry [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Curses, Disassociation, EDIT 2: i should just be out with it, EDIT: i just fixed the relationship tag to have the slashes because this is romantic mao, M/M, OCs - Freeform, Self-Hatred, Swords, Sympathetic Deceit, Touch-Starved, Violence, a lot of self-hatred, alternative title: meet the Romans, but they Are Roman™™™, but they're all distinctly Not Roman™, confusing feelings, cursing, every chapter has chapter warnings as well, falling, i made a disney-songs-only playlist specifically for this au, idk if they're ocs honestly its just like, multiple different versions of roman?, realizing i should have said in the tags, self-deprication, so i dont know, so references to Remus will be a thing, tbh these are the ones that carry over to every chapter, there is cursing and curses, there'll definitely be Mentions of Remus like at random, there's gonna be a lot of cursing too, yeehaw!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-03-02 08:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 150,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18807739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UncrownedKing/pseuds/UncrownedKing
Summary: Roman tries to imagine what it'd be like if he were what the others wanted — chivalrous, honorable, selfless. Tries to imagine what it'd be like for the others to approve of him. Love him. But, for him to achieve this, he'd have to cast himself a different role, and the Imagination answers each of Romans' callsPatton, Logan, Virgil, and Deceit would disagree. After Deceit sees him fall, the others must find a way to convince Roman that they want no one more than who his is and always has been: their Prince.





	1. one song

It wasn’t like Roman asked to be this way, to be made of desire and desperation and dreams.

He was sitting in his room, spending another day brainstorming video ideas, falling into a rabbit hole of daydreaming of the future. His room, overlooking the vast Imagination, had morphed to include an approximately-floor-length window. The window sill was large and cushioned, emulating a plush chaise longue, and Roman readily draped himself across it. He stared out the window and had let himself get lost, dragging Thomas’ concentration with him. They dreamt of possible plays Thomas could act in come the future, of future romances to hold, and love. 

That was where the buck stopped. Roman could feel Logan subconsciously tugging Thomas’ focus back onto the task at hand, as per usual. 

Of course, Roman let him go, and he continued to ponder alone. The Imagination warped around with him, his room shortening, the window’s glass disappearing and opening up into another half of a room. What room? Roman didn’t know, he didn’t base these self-insert daydreams on anything in particular. It was carpeted, homely, and the scene smelt of freshly baked cookies and lavender candles.

He ran his hand along the cushion behind him, then gripped the velvety fabric tight. He didn’t want to be alone in this scene.

“What’s got you so glum, kiddo,” Roman didn’t pick a specific voice, but his mind conjured a mix between Patton’s exuberance and Logan’s attentiveness, “You’ve been zoned out for hours.” 

The hands that rested on his shoulders, though, were as pale as Virgil’s. Thomas was no longer tuned into his fantasies, wholly focused on the taxes Logan was probably doing. Roman let himself lean back into this person’s arms, letting himself imagine being comforted. 

The person — Roman was sure they didn’t have a name, considering the Imagination’s creation didn’t even pick a specific Side to play — began massaging his shoulders. However, the Imagination was just that, and thus the creation’s touch didn’t feel right. It was too imaginary. 

“I don’t know,” a blatant lie, Roman knew, but he didn’t want to consider what he actually felt. 

“We don’t want to invite anyone else, do we, Princey?” Virgil’s voice now, low and threatening and more worried than was realistic. “C’mon. You can talk to me.” Also unrealistic.

Roman smiled, though his sentiments weren’t humorous. Of course this predicament would make him stoop so low as to be comforting himself, with these damned fantasies no less.

He straightened his posture and the creation took the invitation, sitting down behind him. Its arms wrapped around his waist, beneath Roman’s arms, and one of its legs kicked itself onto the longue’s other side to straddle him. Roman still stiffened, despite the lack of pressure, the lack of honest warmth in the other’s touch. 

Roman cleared his throat, hoping that his words wouldn’t catch. “Do you mind if I draw?” he asked, merely as a courtesy, because of course he knew the answer. And yet his voice still caught, cracking on the word “draw.”

“Of course,” softer than Logan’s voice would ever go. 

Roman summoned a thick drawing pad and a pencil, immediately training his eyes on the blank paper so he could ignore the growing burning sensation where the figment’s chest was pressed against his back. The line between Roman’s room, the unchanging and easily-accessible to other Sides, and the Imagination, Roman’s domain, was thinner than a hair. In times like this, even Roman didn’t know where the boundary was. 

The fantasy tightened its grip on Roman’s shirt and he stiffened again. His stomach did somersaults, he hadn’t been held this long in so long, and it was so foreign that he wanted to throw the imaginary body off of him. Despite the burning sensation that its touch incurred, he didn’t want to let go. “You didn’t answer my question,” Logan, again, though more accusatory. Virgil, perhaps? A hybrid.

“I don’t want to answer,” Roman responded, trying to keep the confusing storm of emotions out of his voice.

“....I’m worried about you,” Patton now, as the weightless hand let go of his shirt and lowered itself to tug his waist again, “You haven’t been outside in days.”

Roman sighed. Why hadn’t he been outside? Had it truly been days? He could force the Imagination to display a nice daytime sun, so he couldn’t really tell the passage of time while holed up in his room. His eyes didn’t move from the paper. His arm lifted, doodling something. He didn’t pay attention to what.

Time passed. Roman wasn’t sure how much, but he had nearly filled the page before the figure lifted a hand and pointed to what Roman had drawn. “Alright, Princey, spill. You can’t hide forever,” Virgil’s accusatory tone, with Patton’s soft concern.

It was two hands, intertwined.

God, it was a miracle Deceit hadn’t barged in yet to slap reality into him.

He could conjure as many imaginary figures as he wanted, to hold and kiss and twirl and hug, all day, any day, but none of them felt as real as he needed. Nothing felt real, not here. Not even the imaginary creature behind him, with its cold yet warm yet unreal lips pressed against the base of his neck.

Roman shivered, but in pleasure or unease, he couldn’t tell.

It wasn’t like he didn’t get touched, either. Patton hugged him a lot, nearly every day, or tugged his arm, or brushed arms past him in the kitchen. It was usually Patton, as Logan and Virgil didn’t typically apply physical touch. They had their own love languages, so to speak, and Roman was a master linguist. He could compliment, give gifts and services, spend time — 

“Yet you turn into a brick when I pat your shoulder,” Logan’s voice again, as though driving the point home, “You have your own languages, too, Roman. You shouldn’t hide that.”

Roman snorted, curling forward, away from the figure. “If I wanted to be berated, I’d go into the common room and let Logan do it himself,” he hissed.

Even he was turning into his own villain.

….As much as he disliked spotlighting his weaknesses, the figure had a point. The obvious solution to his problem was to go outside and, gosh, maybe just ask someone for a fucking hug? Barge into the kitchen and twirl the first person he saw, kiss them all over their face and exposé his love, his undying love.

The imaginary man’s arms unraveled from his waist. Roman knew fully that that sort of display wouldn’t fly, that he couldn’t just demand contact from the others.

“Well, why not?” Patton, confused, even hurt. And another voice. Deceit? Was Deceit permeating his subconscious, too?

“Well, gee, consent, first of all. Second, Virgil or Logan wouldn’t enjoy that, and I wouldn’t want to startle Pat. Plus, Patton’s clumsy on his feet, and a boisterous display of affection would throw him off his balance, thus he’s out of the question as well, and….” Roman cut himself off with a since as he felt the figure behind him stand back up, the not-real weight leaving Roman’s back cold and too light for comfort.

“I see,” now, who’s voice was that? Logan’s understanding, a monotonous knowing tone, but with Virgil’s anger and hostility laced through, and an underlying level of sadness, of remorse that could have only come from Patton. Was that just three voices in one? Four? The all-too-undeceivable Deceit, with his ability to see through Roman’s bravado like clear glass. The Imagination’s creation was truly falling apart now.

Wait, what did the Imagination “see”? Roman didn’t understand, and the Imagination didn’t have a conscious without him. He turned around, looking up from the drawing pad, mouth open to ask. 

There was no one there. No more open, warm room. The scents of home had long since dissipated — had Roman not noticed? How deep into his own fantasies was he, that he didn’t realize the divide between his room and the Imagination had reestablished itself. 

Instead, he was facing the window again, overlooking an overcast grassy plain that led into a forest. A stereotypical vision, of course. In the distance was a castle. Prince Roman’s castle, actually. This was one of his default views, when he didn’t want to acknowledge his role as a Prince in the kingdom of Thomas’ mind but, rather, his role as a humble storyteller, casting himself as the chorus rather than the lead.

It was a type of comforting distance from the responsibility of feeling. And, yet, Roman missed the fantasy. He missed its touch, however fake it felt. His stomach stopped lurching and now sat like a stone, shoulders leaning down under a tremendous weight, despite the weight that had left and left him feeling lightheaded.

But what was this constant greed, this unethical and unchivalrous yearning for more? The relief was instantaneous, every time Roman let himself soften into whoever’s hand was resting upon his, but the moment that their touch withdrew, the gaping hole opened once more. The alternative was that he wanted to be hugged indefinitely, to have a pair of arms wrapped around his shoulders at all times, but he could already hear Logan’s voice berating him for the unrealistic nature of that desire. Maybe that was why Patton always wore his hoodie around his shoulders? He’d tear out his own tongue before asking. No, Roman wouldn’t give in to these desires. 

….Since when did Roman resist his desires? Wasn’t that all he was? The producer of desires, of wants and selfishness?

He whipped around, throwing the pencil in his hand at the wall. It splintered into two with a loud crack, in time with thunder from the storm outside. Roman starred at the black lead mark on the wall, willing himself to not think about how that’s all he was, how he continued to push Thomas in directions that no one else agreed with. Slowly, he ran a hand through his hair and dropped the drawing pad onto the ground, legs bending up to his chest. If he was a prince, why couldn’t he be chivalrous? Why couldn’t he just let go of these asinine dreams? 

The thunder crackled again, yanking Roman back into the present moment. When did the storm start? He turned around to the window.

A hand touched his cheek. There was no glass, no window — how long had there been no window, and how long had he not noticed? — and, floating outside was a man-shaped cloud. It was distinctly man-shaped, with legs and arms and a hand on Roman’s cheek, lightning crackling out its back. Roman’s brows shot up, eyes widening. Jesus, his Imagination had truly run wild, hadn’t it? On most days, Roman would question how this cloud being had formed. Most of the Imagination’s creations were made consciously. Roman could will castles up from the ground, summon armies and sunny days and grassy fields, build up whole cities and whole worlds, but that all came from his will. The Imagination didn’t usually operate without Roman’s will. 

The hand was cold, misty wet. It must be because this person was a cloud, Roman thought. It didn’t feel real, not like how Patton would cup his cheek and kiss his forehead. It felt even more fake than the figment had earlier. The hand had no weight, no warmth, but it was contact nonetheless, and the tingling electricity that shot across his face silenced all of Roman’s confusion and worries, demanded he focus on the touch alone.

He leaned into the hand, letting the cloud’s other arm loop itself around his back, pull him off the couch, and lift him into the cloud’s chest. He didn’t know where it was taking him, what it was doing. This was lighter than the imaginary man’s, softer and colder and faker. But he knew that his was what he wanted, what he needed, and even though Roman knew he shouldn’t indulge himself, he let his guard drop.

The cloud picked him up, carrying him like a koala. Roman threw his arms around the cloud’s shoulders, eyes squeezing shut, willing and hoping for this companionship to be real. He didn’t notice his room fade from around him, didn’t notice his bed and desk and the posters and fairly lights and carpet and closet disappear until just his bedroom door was left, floating and surrounded by nothing. 

No, Roman just hugged this ghost of air, trying to believe in the arms that wrapped around his back and legs. Trying to believe he was wanted.

Until that disappeared, too.

And Roman plummeted, away from his room, away from the Mind Palace home, into the dark and newly unfamiliar pit of the Imagination.

* * *

 

Deceit was shocked. Not by Roman being a desperate and starved fool, but more by the ground fading away beneath him. He was rooted in reality, thus standing on a solid floor despite its invisibility. 

He’d only been there a few moments, arriving just in time to see Roman fling a pencil at the wall. With that as his foresight, Deceit’d chosen to hide himself, turn invisible so the prince wouldn’t know he was watching. 

Some part of him was angry, now, for keeping his presence a secret. Especially now, as he watched Roman be swallowed in a black gaping hole impossibly far beneath him. It took him a few minutes of staring into the darkness, confused and disoriented and inexplicably angry, for him to finally find the strength to take four steps backwards, open Roman’s bedroom door, and dart back into the Mind Palace. 

Whatever this problem was, Deceit knew he had to tell the others. They had to figure out this hole Roman’d dug for himself and, hopefully, lift him out of it.


	2. i'm wishing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: more cursing, violence, strangulation (Virgil's knee-jerk reaction upon seeing Deceit is to strangle him), general panicked feelings, arguing, heights? let me know if i missed anything!
> 
> more notes below!

How the hell was Deceit supposed to explain what he’d just seen?

He’d been pondering for hours, pacing around his room. It probably wasn’t good that he’d waited hours since the incident but this was a situation that had to be approached cautiously. Virgil didn’t trust him nor like him, and Patton and Logan were inclined to take Virgil’s side. Something had happened to Roman, though, and it seemed dangerous. Possibly even something that Deceit had warned them about prior.

A part of him wanted them to find out themselves. To throw Roman’s door open and see only the dark pit that’d swallowed their heroic prince. That’d teach them to ignore him. But what kind of effect would that have on Thomas? Deceit didn’t want to risk Thomas having the worst creative block of his life because of his own inaction, that was for certain.

Plus, the bottomless pit and lack of Roman’s room would be solid evidence that something had happened, and that might be enough to convince them to help him. Or, if they didn’t want Deceit involved, for them to take action themselves.

Who was he kidding. Those idiots needed him.

So what. He could impersonate Roman, he could conjure a replica of his outfit, slide into the Mind Palace’s common area without an issue. Out of the four accepted Sides, Deceit was most confident in his ability to portray Roman, especially after the courtroom debacle. But, and he stopped his pacing, where would that leave him? Roman hadn’t left his room in nearly a week. The others would no doubt be worried, would probably interrogate him, and Deceit couldn’t spend time on the witness stand as Roman without cracking. And then they would all think he had something to do with it.

This was more concerning, more personal. A matter of pure self-preservation, so to speak. Deceit didn’t know where Thomas’ Creativity had gone. It looked as though the ground had swallowed him whole. Deceit needed — and he winced at the thought of it — to lay his cards out for the other Sides. Tell them honestly that he’d witnessed Roman’s fall. Show them the pit itself. Hope they understand.

….He hated showing his hand like such, but he wasn’t willing to perjure himself in this situation.

Deceit sighed. Now that he knew what he had to do, time was of the essence. Might as well approach the others immediately. He cracked his neck, picked his coat and hat up from the coat rack, and fixed his outfit in the mirror behind his door. He had to be straight-forward. No tricks, no disguises.

Mother _fucker_ , he already didn’t like this.

Slowly, he rose up, appearing just at the top of the stairs. Hopefully he’d be able to walk down the stairs, not be seen by Virgil, approach….heck, Patton? Whichever he saw first, Patton or Logan, and plead for an open ear. Patton would probably be more willing, thus making him the best case scenario.

“What’re you doing here.”

Deceit stifled a groan. Alright, worst case scenario time.

“I’m here to ask for help.”

Shuffling behind him. Deceit stepped to the side, facing Virgil head on. While Deceit was dressed to be seen, Virgil certainly wasn’t, sporting an oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants. His hood was up but Deceit could see his glare perfectly well in the dark.

“What kind of help would you need, snake face?” Virgil hissed at him, “Get out before I make you.”

“I’m not the one who needs help,” Deceit whispered back, “I….”

No tricks. No lies.

“....Something’s happened to Roman. And—”

Virgil’s hand was around Deceit’s neck almost as soon as he mentioned Roman. “What’d you do to him?” his voice rose, panic threatening to spill over, “If you hurt him, so help me, I’ll rip your scales off.”

Deceit gasped for breath. This was definitely not ideal, he thought, one hand trying to pry Virgil’s fingers from his throat. Really, how was he supposed to explain himself if Virgil was gonna do this?

“Imagination—Roman—Virgil—” there wasn’t any time for this, Deceit wanted to scream at him, who knew where Roman had gone? But he could barely breathe. Hopefully Virgil could feel how panicked Deceit was.

If he did, he didn’t show it. Virgil just glared harder at him, pressing Deceit against the wall. “Full sentences,” he growled, and Deceit wanted to groan, are you kidding me?

Soft footsteps approached up the stairs, and Virgil dropped Deceit, who leaned back against the wall and lifted a hand to massage his throat.

“Virgil!” ah, Patton, his savior, “What’s going on here?”

Deceit would have explained that he’d dropped in to warn them about the absentee prince but was accosted not too gently the moment he arrived. He even opened his mouth, ready to snap back with a retort. But instead of words, he could only manage to cough, doubling over into himself as his throat burned.

“Deceit showed up, said something about Roman. I was in the middle of kicking him out.”

“Something about Roman? Does Deceit know why he’s been in his room for so long, maybe?”

“Beats me. You know we can’t trust anything he says, Pat, just let me take him out.”

“Did you choke him?” Deceit straightened his back, coughing behind a hand, trying to not let too much of his guard down around these hooligans.

Patton was standing between him and Virgil, who was leaning against the opposite hallway wall, starring away from them both with a glare. Deceit made a face at him before turning to Patton and nodding. He cleared his throat, then winced. Why’d he do that. He knew it’d hurt.

Patton grimaced and waved Deceit closer. “C’mon, lets go downstairs. Then you can tell us what you wanted to, m’kay?”

That got Virgil’s attention. He turned back towards them and pushed himself off the wall. “What?! Patton, you can’t be serious, he’s—that’s Deceit, you know he’s bad news, we gotta get him out—”

“If he knows something about Roman, then we should hear him out. Attacking someone for just being isn’t nice,” Deceit raised an eyebrow at Patton, surprised at how easily he came to his defense.

Virgil scowled but had the self-respect to look remorseful. He bowed his head, stalking off down the stairs, mumbling a quiet “sorry” as he left.

Patton and Deceit both watched him go and, once he disappeared into the kitchen, looked at each other with mirroring reproachful expressions.

“Thank you,” Deceit coughed out, rubbing his throat again as he heard how actually hoarse his voice was.

“....Now, I can’t say I don’t agree with Virgil in some ways,” Patton waved his hand and nudged Deceit towards the stairs, “But I don’t think violence is the answer. You wouldn’t have come here it if weren’t something important.”

Deceit didn’t have an answer that didn’t include sarcasm and perhaps a few choice swear words, so he decided to not say anything. He just stepped carefully down each stair, Patton’s hand resting on his shoulder and steering him into the kitchen.

Logan and Virgil were already there, sitting opposite each other at the table. Virgil had his hood pulled up, strings tightened such that Deceit couldn’t see his face. He knew, however, that Virgil was definitely glaring at the table. Logan was a little more open, holding a tablet with one hand and a coffee mug with the other. He raised an eyebrow at Patton but said nothing of the moral side sitting Deceit down at the table, right beside himself.

There must have been something very wrong for very long, because even Deceit knew that the kitchen was loud whenever there were two Sides in here. Instead of the noise, however, there was just silence. And tension. God, how did he let it get this bad. 

“Drinks, anyone?” Patton asked, “Deceit, I’m gonna make you some tea.”

“Thanks,” he croaked out again, hissing at the sound of his own voice.

If Logan’s eyebrow could go up more, it would have. He lowered the tablet, watching Deceit quietly, inspecting him. Like some sort of animalistic specimen, Deceit thought as he leaned on a hand.

Logan had a question in mind, though. “Your voice hasn’t always sounded like that, correct?”

Deceit rolled his eyes. “No,” he glanced at Virgil, who pulled the strings of his hood tighter around his own face.

Ashamed, most likely. Probably mortified.

“....Had a bad coughing bought. Ran out of my own tea. Scared Virgil in the hall,” Deceit wasn’t here to cause Virgil any more anxiety. He was sure that, whether they knew anything about the Roman situation or not, Virgil was already catching the excess fear and negativity.

Not disclosing Virgil’s violent reaction seemed to be a shock, because he tilted his hooded head up to squint at Deceit.

No tricks. Deceit shrugged at him, face hardset.

“You….”

Deceit raised a single eyebrow at him. Did Virgil really want to disclose that? Patton looked around at them, and he seemed to share a look with Virgil over Deceit’s back. He didn’t mind. It was up to Virgil.

“....Mentioned. Something, about Roman,” there we go.

Patton set a mug of chamomile tea down in front of Deceit, who murmured “thank you” as well as he could. He immediately took a sip, hoping that the tea made his voice work just well enough to explain what he’d seen.

“Alright,” Deceit coughed, and took another sip. No tricks. No lies. “Okay. He was lying pretty blatantly to himself, which is a worrying start. So much so that it summoned me right into his room….”

Deceit described what he saw. Roman throwing a pencil at the wall so hard it snapped into two.

Being caressed by a storming cloud that wetted his princely garb and shot lightning around the room.

The walls and furniture fading away like mist.

How he fell into the black nothingness below. Falling, and falling, until the little white dot was gone as well.

They all listened, enraptured, and Deceit took sips of the tea and pauses to cough throughout his story. Patton sat on the counter, reacting in sound effects and facial expressions. Logan simply watched Deceit, brow furrowed in confusion. Perhaps worry. Virgil was squinting at Deceit, lips set in a hard line, maybe even considering the truth to his words.

Once Deceit finished, Virgil spoke first, voice soft with an implacable tension behind it. “You’re scared for him.”

Deceit leaned back in the chair, taking a large sip of his tea and finishing off the mug. It was promising that they actually listened, maybe they’d take him at face value. “I know what I saw. The Imagination just swallowed him up.”

“But, see, I don’t get–I don’t really–I don’t understand that,” Patton was leaning on the counter behind Deceit, fingers drumming gently against the cabinet, “Roman controls the Imagination. It wouldn’t just do that without his permission, right?”

Gosh darnit, Patton. “So it got his permission, then! I don’t know how the Imagination worked and, honestly, I was hoping you all’d have a better idea of what happened,” They had to act, now. Deceit was growing impatient.

“Why would we need to know? That’s Roman’s area of expertise,” Logan could also sense his own ignorance and apparently chose to ignore it. “I don’t understand why you think we dabbled in creative endeavours when Roman was there embodying it.”

Deceit shot him a glare. “Because, Logan, teamwork. I thought you all practiced _teamwork_ here, since you all make it seem so important that you’re each other’s friends and whatever,” he gestured forward, pointing at Virgil, “You think you’re doing a great job of protecting him and leveling with him, but really, you’re all just leaving Roman to sit alone in the dark!”

Virgil bristled. “Watch your mouth—”

“We ARE friends, but that’s why we don’t get involved!” Patton held up a hand, voice desperate for attention and for the tension to ease. “I–We don’t want Roman to think we’re stepping on his toes. Yeah, we make stuff, sure, but the big creating is always for him.”

They didn’t get it. Deceit slumped back into his chair, scowling directly at Virgil. Virgil wasn’t even distorting what he was saying. Well, he was, but probably not intentionally. They just didn’t believe him. How could he show them, how could he make them see that he was being honest—

Aha. The pit.

Deceit stood up. “Why don’t we check his room,” he snapped.

Virgil stood up as well, hands flat on the table. “We don’t go into each others’ room without permission, that’s not a thing we do. It’s privacy.”

“Oh, yeah? Not even to protect each other? Not to comfort or check up on one another?” Deceit’s nose scrunched up as he walked around the table, towards the stairs, “You’re so worried about not intruding on each other’s space that you’re willing to put those meaningless rules ahead of your friends’ safety?”

“Roman’s NOT IN DANGER, because I WOULD KNOW,” Virgil snapped, following close behind Deceit, “I can TELL.”

“Then why don’t you tell them!” Deceit threw his arms into the air, grasping at nothing as he tried to understand Virgil’s nonsensical desire to counter everything he said. He was ready to throw ‘No tricks’ out the goddamn window. “Tell them, tell them about how Roman’s been feeling anxious all week, how you just didn’t say anything, how you’ve been lying to yourself about his worries, as though you could just tell yourself that Roman wasn’t feeling upset.”

“I—” Virgil faltered now, “You don’t–I had to make a decision. Roman wasn’t–he needed—”

“Who’re you to decide what he needs? He’s Thomas’ desires, he knows what he needs and what he wants and all that!” Deceit could see the doors now, all the Sides’ bedrooms with labels and decorations.

He figured they’d decorated them themselves. While he hadn’t had the chance to look around and did want to accustom himself to the Mind Palace, he didn’t have the time nor patience to adequately memorize the doors. He just looked for the one labeled “ROMAN’S ROOM” and started towards it.

“Hang on, Deceit. We’ve definitely all comforted each other before. Some more than others. Well, me more than others, since Dad over here’s most likely to be eating a pint of ice cream—”

“Patton,” if only Deceit could echo Logan’s exasperation, but tenfold.

“Sorry! What I’m trying to say is that we might have….I don’t think any of us fully knew how upset Roman was. If he’s as upset as you’re saying he is,” he was, but Deceit didn’t want to interrupt, “But when Roman holes himself up in his room like this, usually he doesn’t–he tells us to not go in.”

Deceit….didn’t know how to respond. Of course that prideful idiot would say to not go in. He didn’t want anyone seeing him like this, of course. Did Patton not get that? Or were they all just so bent on following these rules that they weren’t willing to step out of line for the safety of one of their own?

“Maybe Deceit wants us to piss Roman off,” Virgil grumbled tiredly, after Patton’s outburst gained no response. Deceit knew that Virgil knew that that was a lie. They both knew.

“Or he could simply be lying. But for what reason,” Logan stepped up the final stair and continued after them, still trying to understand the irrational tension.

“I don’t HAVE a reason to lie about this!” Deceit nearly shouted, rounding back on the trio in anger, “I know what I saw.”

He was met with three fairly hostile and skeptical expressions,  and he didn’t know what he expected. Support? Understanding? Pah.

God, how had Deceit ignored his duties like this? To let the other Sides just steamroll each other with pleasantries that ultimately left them all isolated….well, following that line of thinking would lead to an ouroboros of hypocrisy.

“Roman’s in danger, and who knows how far he’s fallen by now,” Deceit rested on the door’s handle, “And it’s truly illuminating to see how little you all care about him! Letting him stay holed up in his room for a _week_ without checking on him? Some friends!”

Patton’s hands balled into fists as he shoved them straight down at his sides. He approached Deceit as well, following just after Virgil. “Hey! Watch your tone there, mister, we’re very much his friends! And friends know when to give each other some space.”

“And know when to not break into someone’s room,” Virgil’s voice slipped into his deeper, more demanding powers as he hissed angrily.

Deceit was reeling. He hissed back at Virgil and rounded on the other two. “None of you are LISTENING—”

“As much as your aspect weighs into the possibility of you telling the truth, I find it unlikely that the Imagination would betray Roman in an autonomous way. And I don’t think it’s likely that the Mind Palace would stay as sturdy as it currently is, were Roman in any real danger,” Logan approached Deceit, putting himself between him, and Virgil and Patton, voice still maintaining a guise of calm rationality.

Deceit wasn’t having this anymore, though. He had physical proof.

“Look, you don’t have to believe me. But you cannot deny that _this—”_ Deceit yanked open the door, eliciting a loud shout from both Patton and Virgil about Roman’s privacy. He was about to yell something else, but the words died in his throat when he saw the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i don't know if i'm gonna make this longer  
> also me: *writes thousands of words for this au*
> 
> so get ready, because this is going to be an actual long au story!! im going to update the fic details/tags/warnings to include what might happen in the whole story, but every chapter's going to have chapter-specific warnings too
> 
> things Happened to Roman, and its about time everyone found out (and that he got lOVED—) so this is very much an AU!


	3. the bells of notre dame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: arguing, yelling, panic (no panic attacks but Virgil is incredibly on edge, as is everyone), heights/possibly falling two floors off a tall ladder — if i missed anything, please please let me know!! 
> 
> anyway,
> 
> MEET THE ROMANS!!!!!

The room had changed, yes, but it hadn’t gone back to being Roman’s bedroom.

In fact, the room appeared more like a long walk-in closet. Deceit closed the door a little and looked at the front again — yep, the sign was still there, this was still Roman’s room. He let the door swing all the way open in a silent invitation to the other Sides to peek in. Logan was the first to join him in the doorway, standing right besides Deceit, only a few inches away from the threshold.

From the doorway, they couldn’t see the end of the narrow hall. Both walls were packed with clothes pressed against each other, like some sort of unreasonably long walk-in closet. There was a second shelf of clothes above that, just as packed. In the hallway’s center were some benches, of varying aesthetics. The one closest to the door was plush, with seating on both sides and red cushions, but the one next to it and farther in looked like a football stadium bleacher. Strewn about, too, were many, many shoes. Not all in pairs.

Deceit leaned his head into the room and, with one hand on his hat, looked up. The ceiling continued forever as well, with even more shelves of clothing stretching up as far as the eye could see.

“This is certainly a change,” Logan commented, a slight tremor in his voice, “Though it’s a far cry from the black abyss you’d claimed to see.”

“What’s it look like?” Virgil shuffled behind them both, the tensions of earlier now replaced with a stifling dread.

Deceit glanced back at him, just to check. Old habits die hard. He was holding Patton’s arm tight, breathing nearly nonexistent, off-hand twitching every so often. Virgil’s hair was matted down, too, as he and Patton examined the room. The concern was leaking into Patton, as his hand seemed just as tight on Virgil’s. He pushed up his glasses without taking his eyes off of the room, and Deceit could see some tears sparkling behind the lenses. Virgil’s mounting panic plus Patton’s deep concern was creating an intoxicating brew of ‘we should get on with this.’

Deceit turned to Logan and nodded to the room. They’d have to go in to find Roman.

There was nothing else to be done. Logan lifted a foot.

“Don’t go in there,” Virgil said, nearly shouted.

“Well, we must, if we’re—”

“Hang on, hang on, first,” Patton leaned forward, nudging his face between Logan and Deceit while keeping his feet firmly planted behind them as Virgil tugged him closer. He cupped his other hand around his mouth. “ROMAN? HELLO?”

Silence was his answer. Not even an echo. Patton’s nose scrunched up. He pulled back, wrapping an arm subconsciously around Virgil. “That usually works,” his words laced together quietly.

Logan shot him a quick confused glance. Internally, he was considering the possibilities at a breakneck pace. Roman’s room was the most volatile, susceptible to constant change depending on how the creative side felt and what his most recent project was. It made sense that the room wouldn’t look exactly how it did the last time they’d seen it, especially given how long it’d been since the door had last been opened.

Something was still unusual, however. Even though its theming was impermanent, there were certain constants: a bed, a wardrobe or closet, a desk, often a window or two, Roman’s fairy lights, some posters. Even when period themed, Roman kept a laptop on his desk and a speaker besides his bed. Now there wasn’t even a bed. There were just rows and rows of clothes, some unwearable for daily use. Logan could definitely see a hoop skirt over there on the left. And….was that a full military uniform? Why would Roman need outfits such as those?

“A costume room!” Patton exclaimed, causing everyone else to jump.

Virgil calmed himself down first. “Can’t you give a guy a warning before your lightbulb moments, Pat?” he stuffed his hands into his hoodie pockets, glowering at Patton.

“Sorry, kiddo,” Patton rubbed the back of his neck and smiled thinly back, “I just thought, this whole set up….it looks a lot like a big ole’ dressing room, doesn’t it? With the costumes and the benches?”

The other three glanced back around the room. “I suppose you’re right,” Logan said, drawing out his words.

Before another silence overtook, though, he cleared his throat and straightened his tie. “I don’t think we’ll learn any more about Roman’s sudden room change without going in,” his voice was stiff, trying to hide whatever nervousness he felt.

“I don’t know. I don’t like this,” Virgil grumbled, eyes locked on the darkness at the end of the hallway.

It was dimly lit but not difficult to see in. They could definitely search around in here, but there wasn’t a boundary between the Imagination and Roman’s room. For all they knew, they could be walking straight through the Imagination, which would be chaotic. They couldn’t control it like Roman could. Sure, Virgil’d made a fair nightmare or dark daydream, but it always got out of hand or was overseen by Roman himself, usually inspirational fodder for some bigger project he was cooking.

Actually, now that he thought about it, Virgil didn’t think he’d ever been in the Imagination without Roman. He hadn’t heard of any of the others entering Roman’s “kingdom” without him and, honestly, he wasn’t keen on finding out what’d happen if they didn’t have a guide.

_Oof._

“Are you going to stop glaring at the hallway any time soon?” Deceit’s voice pulled Virgil from his thoughts and another spiral.

Before he could retort, Logan stepped back from the room to face him. “I hate to admit it, but he’s right. We should enter and find Roman ourselves,” he crossed his arms as he explained. “This room doesn’t bear resemblance to any sort of bedroom and, if Patton’s assumption that this is a costume room is correct, then we must ask why Roman’s chosen to, er. Switch things up. There are different interpretations we could derive but it’s better to hear it from him, as well as pull him out of his room for a meal and check-in.”

“And if he gets mad that we barged in on his personal space and doesn’t want to see us again?” Virgil asked, crossing his arms to mirror Logan’s stance.

“Then we acknowledge that Deceit lied, and we ask why he hasn’t left his room in a week. I find the second part of your statement highly improbable as well. Considering our concern and confusion over Roman’s absence, I think we are well-warranted in entering without permission.”

“Wow, check out Logan, finally coming to his senses about the constructive nature of personal space,” Deceit followed Logan away from the doorway, a sneer on his lips.

Logan and Virgil now both glared at Deceit. “Me agreeing that I’m confused by Roman’s sudden departure doesn’t mean I agree with your explanation that he fell into a hole — a hole that is no longer there, mind you.”

“And we can probably find Roman without you stinking up the place,” Virgil waved his hands at Deceit, gesturing for him back up, “How about you drag yourself back to whatever hole you crawled out of, and—”

“Guys! I found my old cardigan in here!”

All three of them looked up, noticing that Patton was a fair way into the room, and all of them tensed. As much as Deceit and Logan were talking a big game about entering the room, it seemed they were just as nervous as Virgil was.

Patton didn’t react to their concern, perusing the costumes lining the left side of the wall. In his defense, Patton already knew they were gonna have to search for Roman in here. He didn’t distrust Deceit more than he was worried about Roman isolating himself, and the collection of costumes was a lot more interesting to him than debating the morality — he snorted to himself — of the situation. Besides, Virgil’d get the hint that the morals of going in were fine if Patton and Deceit were agreeing.

Now, the cardigan was the same as his. Patton would have thought Roman’d just taken it if he hadn’t felt assured that his cardigan was in his closet, in his room. Plus, THIS cardigan didn’t have a dollar in the pocket! Or, wait, he’d given that dollar back to Roman, since he owed him. Okay, well, he was still pretty certain that HIS cardigan was back in HIS room!

“You shouldn’t be touching Roman’s clothes, Patton,” Logan had entered the room.

Patton didn’t look up, though he could tell by Logan’s voice that he was standing just behind him. “Awh, but there’re so many outfits! Who knew Roman had so many!”

Something blue caught his eye. Patton reached for a hanger just a few spaces down from the cardigan and pulled out Logan’s old outfit, with the black polo shirt and periwinkle tie. “Hey, look! It’s you!” He grinned at Logan, laughing at Logan’s cute little surprised expression, “Talk about a blast from the past!”

Logan took the hanger, lifting it up to inspect. It was just the shirt and tie, but….well. He felt a twinge of nostalgia. “I do prefer my current tie,” he said.

“An’ I think you look great in anything,” Patton nudged him with his elbow, “Just thought you’d wanna see! Looks like Roman’s stocked up on all our old outfits.”

“C’mon, guys, we shouldn’t be in here,” Patton and Logan turned and saw Virgil slowly follow Deceit past the threshold, steps slow and careful, as if the ground were going to fall into the pit Deceit’d described.

Once Virgil was two steps in, though, the door slammed shut behind him. He whipped around, screaming in surprise and launching himself backwards into Deceit, who then shouted and fell forward onto the red couch.

Patton screamed, too, and flung himself into Logan, who actually caught him. His arms wrapped around Patton’s shoulders as he hoisted him up.

They all watched as the door sank beneath the deep red carpet, standing still as statues as it slid down and left a blank white-wallpapered wall.

Trapped.

Logan let go of Patton slowly, arms dropping to his sides. He could feel a headache coming on. Patton unraveled himself from Logan, too, stepping more towards Deceit and Virgil as the shock wore off. Deceit nearly flung Virgil off of himself, probably would have succeeded if Virgil hadn’t jumped off of him first.

The shock of what had happened was definitely wearing down on Virgil, hands shaking at his sides. Patton placed a hand on his shoulder — an offer — and Virgil took it, hugging Patton tight, burying his face into his chest. Patton wrapped his arms around Virgil too, just as tight. “Sorry,” Patton looked up, mouthing to Deceit.

Deceit seemed nonplussed, though, as he stared down the hallway. Logan’s body was turned towards them, seemingly halfway through approaching, though he too faced down the hall.

“Do you hear….” Logan’s voice, a hushed whisper, “Singing.”

Patton frowned, but carded his hand through Virgil’s hair and listened harder.

 _“You can lie to yourself and your minions,_ ” that voice was unmistakable, verse echoing faintly from down the impossibly long hall.

Virgil gripped the back of Patton’s shirt and perked his head up as the voice grew slightly louder.

“Roman,” Deceit’s shoulders relaxed, “That must be Roman.”

In a non-spoken group decision, the four began to slowly walk down the hall. Deceit led the way past the hanging costumes, each closet packed with outfits, and didn’t stop. Virgil was at the back, still holding onto Patton’s shirt, checking behind them every so often.

Things were even more disorganized as they continued down the hall. Costumes were on the ground, as though fallen from their hangers. Patton’d stopped to fix the first few, but as they saw more and more dishevelment, he gave up. The shoes were strewn about still, some on benches now, some with full costumes sitting on the bench besides them.

_“You can claim that you haven’t a qualm!”_

There were some outfits that they recognized. Thomas’ Dr. Emile Picani costume was sitting on a bench, laid out neatly, as though they’d be shooting Cartoon Therapy the next day. His trenchcoat from playing JD was crumpled in a lump with a single thick boot next to it, from the same outfit. Deceit pointed out a balled up copy of Virgil’s current hoodie, sat in the middle of their walkway.

“He must be in a block. Making all these costumes must’a been a real good creative exercise,” Patton tried to keep his voice light and airy.

Virgil shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a block. It reeks of manic panic in here,” he scowled around, “We gotta figure out what’s wrong with him.”

 _“But you never can run from,”_ Roman’s singing continued, growing louder, closer.

“Of course. Before he disappeared, would you consider that Roman was acting odd? I thought his demeanor was fairly typical for a creative block, hence it wasn’t incredibly worrying,” Logan hummed in thought, then added, “He had been a little more subdued. But, that too could be attributed to the lull in productive creative content plus the incoming tax season.”

“I mean, locking himself in his room was pretty in character,” Virgil said, “But….”

“Was leaving him in his room in character for you all?” Deceit looked back just long enough to catch the glare Virgil shot him, “It’s a fair question, after all this.”

“....How do we know you’re not just leading us into a trap here?” Virgil hissed, without the bite he’d had earlier.

“For the last time, I’m not tricking you. Even you can feel how scared Roman is, you said it yourself,” Deceit stopped, letting Logan walk past him as he argued with Virgil.

“Yeah, but—”

 _“Nor hide what you’ve done from the eyes~!_ ”

Logan held up a hand, stopping all of them. “I can see the end of the hall,” he said.

“And there’s Roman!” Patton let go of Virgil, letting the anxious side finally unravel himself from Patton’s chest while he moved besides Logan.

Instead of a bench, there was a large table in the center of the hallway, papers strewn over it in piles and disorganized stacks. On the opposite walkway side from the other four sides was a ladder and, up two levels of closet, was Roman. He had a stack of costumes in his arms, hanging them up one by one, voice echoing downwards.

 _“The very eyes of Notre Dame!”_ he leaned backwards on the ladder, spurring Virgil to swear loudly, jump towards it, and hold it steadier.

Roman didn’t notice them, though, continuing to sing and hang clothes. Patton, Logan, and Deceit all shared a look while Virgil just looked up at Roman and held the ladder. At least they’d get some answers now.

Logan cleared his throat first. “Roman!”

No response. Roman just continued to sing. _“And for one time in his life of power and control,”_ he waved one of the costumes — a black cloak with blue trims — and spun on the top of the ladder.

“Stop spinning,” Virgil barked, holding the ladder with white knuckles.

The others crowded around the bottom, Patton now holding the other two legs. “Let’s try a little kindness — Roman, kiddo, can you come down here?” his voice was soft, inviting and loving, gazing up the ladder.

_“Frollo felt a twinge of fear!”_

“Well,” Patton looked back down at the other Sides, “I’m shattered.”

Deceit rolled his eyes as Logan sighed. “He’s ignoring us.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious.”

_“For his immortal sou~l!”_

“Roman—Roman, stop,” Deceit shook the ladder, trying to not throw Roman’s balance off, “What’s happening?”

“Yeah,” Virgil shouted, shooting Deceit a deadly glare quickly, “Get down here and stop singing! You’ve got a lotta explaining to do!”

Roman didn’t turn around, but he stopped dancing, singing, and shifting the ladder. “You’re all interrupting the audition,” he snapped as he hung the last costume and began to descend.

As he came closer, the other four could see the differences in his outfit. Gone was the white uniform and red sash, replaced with a white shirt and a tight red vest. Though they could only see his back, the others could see a scroll decal across his shoulders, similar to the one on Roman’s crest. This was certainly a change.

“Roman,” Virgil started, voice quiet, leading to more, but Roman cut him off.

“Stop calling me that. Haven’t won the callback yet,” and he laughed to himself, landing and pivoting at the bottom of the ladder.

The vest buttoned double-breasted in the front, and a bright red tie was tucked into the vest, which had golden lapels. The others watched him push his own pair of black-rimmed Warby Parker glasses up his nose, hair pinned back from its normal waves with one glittering gold pin. A golden pen was tucked behind the ear his hair was, too. On the bottom, he wore black pants and a black dress shoes with whitened Oxfords.

He took notice of their confused looks and bowed with a flourish and a large, proud smile. “As you can all see, I’m definitely not the Prince, and am not Roman YET. For the time being, you may call me the Playwright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! i'm actually super unsure if this needs the "OCs" tag, since, like. there are Multiple Romans. and they're of my design. but they're all roman? like, all of them? are in some way, shape, or form roman??? i'm gonna put it in just in case, but let me know what y'all think, since i'm super unsure bout it.
> 
> either way, i hope y'all liked this one! it's funky fresh and only gonna get Fresher :^)


	4. honor to us all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: cursing, panic, yelling/arguing, crying, self-hatred, self-deprecation, more mentions of being touch-starved (im returning to the story’s original idea YEET) — let me know if i missed anything!!!
> 
> also could be retitled "roman gets sO VALIDATED" and there's only more to come :~)

“The….Playwright,” Deceit recoiled, nose scrunching up as the name rolled off his tongue. He didn’t like the confusion, of course, but he especially didn’t like how Roman was being  _ honest _ about his name. “I think I speak for all of us when I say that we don’t want to deal with your dramatics right now, Roman.”

“What’s the purpose of your outfit change?” Logan took a step closer, and Roman took a step back from Logan’s accusatory tone, “And all of these outfits? And the pseudonym? Where did your room go? Why have you been hiding for a week? What—”

“That’s all backstory, I can’t help you there. It’s not very fun to focus on,” Roman — the Playwright? — walked around the group, towards the table, “Roman and the Imagination are in a very important discussion, and you all interrupted us at the first climax.”

He leaned on the table, ignoring everyone by looking through some papers, mumbling to himself. It was unnerving. The energy of how the Playwright carried himself, just from seeing him, was distinctly Roman-like. But not. He seemed more orderly, hands holding the papers delicately, covered in handwriting that wasn’t nearly as loopy or rushed as Romans’ typically was. It was as though they’d entered an Uncanny Valley.

The group shared looks in a circle, Patton’s eyebrows pinched in worry, Deceit with a tense frown, Logan with an impatiently cocked eyebrow, Virgil and tired snarl. The room’s tension was heavy; it was a miracle that the Playwright was ignoring it.

To Deceit, it seemed that the other three didn’t understand the atmosphere change. “I’m really done with how often you all hide things from each other,” he said, “Look at him. That’s clearly not Roman.”

Patton caught Virgil’s eye. He was staring at the ground, hands shaking at his sides, shoulders hunched to make himself seem smaller. Patton extending a hand towards him, but Virgil pulled away. He marched away from the group and towards the Playwright, ignoring Patton’s hushed warning “Virgil!” and grabbing the Playwright by his sleeve with both his hands. 

He spun him around to face him, holding the Playwright tight but trembling horribly. 

“I don’t know what you and the Imagination’re on about, but you’ve been locked in here for a week and you got us all worried. And now you’re saying you’re not Roman? You’d better start explaining what the hell you’re doing in here, or we’re dragging you out into the common room,” his voice was deeper, doubled over with his Tempest Tongue, “I’m not fucking with this.”

The Playwright just stared at him, wearing a disgruntled frown. He leaned forward, putting his other hand on Virgil’s chest and pushing him away slow.  “If you all paid more attention to the foreshadowing, then you would have seen this coming,” he said.

“What foreshadowing?!” Logan all but shouted, startling them enough for Virgil to let go of the Playwright’s hand, “You cannot just speak in literary terms and expect everyone to understand you as though this’d been expected. This whole debacle has frankly been too obtrusive to our regular routine. You’ve been unnecessarily tense, causing the rest of US distractions in our work out of worry for you. And with Thomas’ new videos to think of, our production has been placed on a halt because of your gratuitous pity parties—”

“Logan!” Patton yanked him backwards and effectively shutting him up, “That’s enough!” 

Logan looked back at Patton, who appeared angrier than ever, and then up at Deceit and Virgil. Both had similarly shocked and fearful expressions. “We know you’re worried, we’re all worried, but you can’t vent your anger out like that,” Patton hissed, out of the Playwright’s earshot.

Clearly the tension’d built up. Logan looked back up at the Playwright. His hands were gripping the table behind him, chest heaving as his breathing quietly picked up. Behind his glasses were tears growing in his eyes, face contorted into a hurt and disgusted unhinged-jaw scowl. What an outburst. Logan leaned back, withdrawing his hand from where he had been angrily pointing a finger just seconds before. 

Immediately, he knew he had to apologize. “I...Roman, I—”

“No development,” the Playwright was venomously angry, “No-No awareness. From any of you. I already said I’m not Roman. Not….”

His voice cracked and he looked away. “Not all of him, anyway,” he turned back around, facing the table, shoulders hunched over. 

Patton pulled Logan back, letting him quietly stand with Deceit and Virgil. He approached the Playwright slowly and put a hand on his shoulder. “Playwright, right?” 

The Playwright swatted Patton’s hand away. “Don’t touch me,” he hissed.

Patton’s brows pinched again, and the Playwright continued in a softer voice, “It-it feels weird. Sorry.”

Alright. Alright, that was okay. Patton leaned on the table besides him. “That’s okay. I’m sorry we interrupted you. Really. But we’re all really worried about you, and we miss you a lot, all of us. We didn’t know what was best to do, since you don’t like being interrupted, but we couldn’t just leave you alone. And, if there’s something we can do to help, we’d like to. We just wanna understand what’s going on.”

The Playwright looked up at him with a single eyebrow raised and fresh tear-tracks down his cheeks. It didn’t look like he was bought what Patton was selling.

Patton took a deep breath and kept going. “I’m sorry we didn’t check on you sooner. But we, um. We wanna help you finish, uh. Writing the story. Or play. You’re a Playwright,” he was rambling now, wasn’t he? He should wrap it up. “We just care about you, a lot.”

He searched Patton’s face for fault and, finding none, turned back to the group. Logan’s fists were balled as he stared hard at the carpet, and Virgil and Deceit were standing besides each other, both watching the Playwright with set jaws. Virgil gave a tiny nod. Yeah, they did care, and they sure as hell weren’t leaving without answers.

The Playwright looked at Patton again. “It’s alright, right, Playwright?” Patton asked, voice soft with a puckish edge.

His response was to snort quietly and punch Patton’s shoulder gently. “I appreciate the wordplay.” 

Patton giggled. The Playwright chuckled, too, and wiped his face with the butt of his palm. “I’m sorry, you all,” he said, “I’m, um. This whole situation has been a headache and a half, incredibly stressful, so I must report that my emotional state is rather volatile.”

He cleared his throat, fixing his tie and vest, without looking at the group yet. “We–I–All of us didn’t think you’d care enough to be involved, but now it’s a little late for big changes. Thank you for checking, though.”

Again, nothing hidden. Deceit cast a sidelong look at Virgil. Virgil was fiddling with his zipper while watching the Playwright, tugging it open and zipping it shut. He seemed to be calming down himself as the but the lingering questions of what the heck was happening definitely weighed in everyone’s minds enough to keep him on edge. Deceit glanced at Logan, who was watching Patton with a blank look, before deciding to ask himself. 

“So. Playwright,” he stepped closer, one careful step at a time, ignoring how the Playwright was refusing to look at him, “What’s happening? Care to explain?”

The Playwright just gazed around at Logan, Patton, Virgil, then Logan again before answering. “I’m sure you’re all wondering that. Sit, I guess. I’ll provide some exposition, for a change.”

He waved a hand, conjuring couches behind them. Slowly, each Side sat, though everyone leaned forward to an extent. The Playwright sat on a stool in front of them, cradling some papers he’d pulled from the table. 

“Roman — the Roman you know, the Prince — had an epiphany. I believe he mentioned it on camera, actually, during the Sander Sides episode ‘Crofters: the Musical,’” the Playwright squinted at one of the papers. “‘I can’t help but wonder if we as a society are past the days of celebrating dashing princes and acts of bravery that are edging on stupidity,’ at timestamp 4:36.

“Despite the acknowledgement that there would be no heavy character development in that episode, that line stuck with him. Princes simply aren’t appreciated anymore, by the audience nor by you all. Thus, to continue maintaining a desired presence, Roman tried to imagine a new form that would be….wanted. But we came up with multiple possible forms. After all,” the Playwright sighed, flipping a page, “Anything is better than the Prince.”

That sat uncomfortably with everyone, though it was difficult to pinpoint why. “I, uh, kiddo?” Patton raised a hand slowly, but the Playwright waved his papers at him.

“Don’t interrupt! Anyway,” he adjusted his glasses, “Back to the source material, Logan is my point of comparison. Hence,” he indicated to himself, “Exhibit A. But I wasn’t the only ‘form’ produced, for lack of a better word. Because there were so many forms — seven, to be precise — we have been hosting a small battle-royale in the Prince’s favored setting. The other six are integrated into Prince Roman’s kingdom village. My themeing is less tied to a narrative and therefore I am backstage.”

“The Mind Palace’s considered backstage?” Deceit jerked his thumb backwards, at the hall of costumes.

The Playwright only glared at him over his glasses. He cleared his throat, looking over Logan and Virgil as though daring them to interrupt, before continuing through his notes. 

“All of us theoretically have the common goal of capturing the others and killing them, in the hopes of replacing the late Prince—”

“Hang on, hang on,” Virgil put his hands up, “‘Late’? Roman’s  _ dead?!” _

The Playwright rolled his eyes. “ _ Clearly _ not,” he said, earning an exasperated glare from Virgil, “Roman has simply been dissolved into seven facets, each displaying different characteristics that he possessed. The same could be done to all of you but, well, enacting it in the actual Mindscape without the help of an imagined scenario would likely be painful. Example given, we could probably divide you into impulse, self-deprecation, overthinking, et cetera. Though I can’t declare myself an expert on the Mindscape’s lore, so don’t quote me on that.”

“Thanks for the fucking call out,” Virgil grumbled, pulling his hood up and yanking the strings down.

The Playwright’s brow pinched, not understanding what he’d done wrong. He turned to the other three Sides, lip pursed, and motioned for the conversation to continue.

“So, and correct me if I’m misunderstanding,” Logan said, “But you are one of the seven forms that the Imagination created?”

“Indeed. Like I said prior, I’m the Playwright. The things I represent are more in-line with the creative features of Creativity, though I must admit a little bit of egoism and dramatic flare are definitely written into my character,” he flipped to the last page of his notes,  “Much of my inspiration was drawn from you, as I implied earlier. And, to be frank, my goal is simply to maintain order while the other aspects of Roman deal with whatever they believe is correct.”

“I understand. I do enjoy the necktie,” Deceit rolled his eyes at Logan’s self-flattery, sharing a tired look with Virgil. “Focusing on something else, does that mean the other six forms bear different resemblances to Roman as well?”

“Of course. One of the only commonalities I’ve noticed thus far is everyone’s affinity for Disney, but that can be attributed to Roman falling back on a strong creative inspiration base, thus dividing Roman’s representation across multiple character tropes to find one suitable.”

“I don’t—okay, I’m not following,” Patton raised a hand again, “You’re using Roman’s name kinda….without talking about him as a person.”

The Playwright smiled thinly, fingers drumming against his papers. “Yes. I’m discussing ‘Roman’ more as a concept than an individual. Consider it as though myself and the other six are presently different pieces of the whole ‘Roman.’”

“Yet the Roman we know, the Prince as you call him,” Logan felt Virgil squeeze his arm, “He is somewhere in the Imagination. In whatever projected battle you have all created or not, but he still exists.”

“Well, like I said, I cannot declare myself an expert over the Mindscape. We may be able to create and bend reality here, but there are even things that we don’t know,” the Playwright pulled the pen from his hair and scribbled something onto his notes, “That is an interesting point to research, though. I can think of one form that bears a striking resemblance to the Prince, but if they  _ were _ the Prince before, they certainly aren’t now. Should the Prince be somewhere in the world, we might be able to erase him finally, because I don’t think—”

“Erase? No, no, we need him back,” Virgil stood up at the same time as Deceit, who said “We’re here to GET Roman back.”

The Playwright blinked up at them, pen still pressed hard against his notes. He looked at Patton and Logan, still sitting, and saw them just as shocked. Maybe a little distrusting. He hadn’t been gifted with a sense of emotional atmosphere, so he didn’t fully understand everyone’s reactions to the news he deposited.

“.....Why?” he turned back to Virgil, setting his notes back on the table behind him, “Any of our other forms are more prefered. The fans don’t enjoy the Prince, none of you like the Prince. It could be argued that you just don’t like  Roman , but, well. I don’t—”

“We  love him!” Patton stood up now. “Roman — the Prince, he’s one of our best friends! And the Imagination can’t just take him away!”

“Yeah, now — yeah. Yeah, no, we need Roman back. I don’t like this whole,” Virgil stood up, too, gesturing to the Playwright, “Roleplay stuff. Give us back our idiot Prince and we’ll get outta here.”

Logan cut in, though stayed sitting. “As much as I’ve enjoyed our discussion here, Playwright, I’m inclined to agree with Patton and Virgil. We would prefer to have the Prince back.”

Deceit just squinted at the Playwright. He was trying to dissect the battle royale situation that’d been described. 

“Like I said. He is gone. I don’t know where, I don’t know where the Imagination brought his being or what form he’s taken, but he’s not here,” the Playwright put his hands up, sliding the pen back behind his ear as he did so. “Why are you all so attached to the Prince? Hasn’t he failed you all enough?”

What was the purpose of the battle royale? What were the possible implications? 

“Well, we’ve all failed each other a bunch, haven’t we? We want Roman here, flaws and all,” Patton said.

“But the less flaws Roman has, the more desirable he becomes. He’s annoying, not smart, not practical, quick-tempered, loud, dramatic—”

The Playwright understood what they were saying, Deceit realized. He just didn’t understand the why.

“You don’t need to list his flaws, we know. But despite that, Roman is also intelligent, ingenuitive, pensive, reflective, and,” Logan drew in a breath, voice steadying. “And is loved.”

“Well, that’s a great sentiment, but you can’t mean it. That’s—”

“He is ridiculous at times, but he does his best,” Deceit finally stood as well. “You’re unable to weigh his virtues.”

“Oh, he’s got virtues now?” the Playwright’s voice grew shrill. “No one’s demonstrated  that line of thinking!”

“Yes, of course he does. He is thoughtful, spontaneous,” Logan was counting on his hand, “Kind, endearing, chivalrous—”

“Haven’t you heard? Chivalry is dead!” the Playwright’s voice increased, suddenly screaming. “No one wants the stupid, annoying, needy Prince Roman! _You don't want ME!_ ” 

His back immediately straightened, hands shooting to his mouth as his words echoed around the darkened costume room.

Everyone froze as well, staring at him with incredulity. The Playwright leaned back onto the table and looked down, hands still gripping his mouth. 

Silence fell as a blanket over the group, dampening the growing tension with an uneasy reality, as the four Sides looked between each other. Virgil opened his mouth, but Logan held up a hand, opened his, and then Patton held up a hand and made a shushing sound. Virgil put his hand over Patton’s, an eyebrow raised. 

Deceit wished he understood what the hell they were all saying to each other, with their eyebrow raising and quiet gestures. Maybe it came with them being so intertwined within the Mind Palace. Wow, Deceit, focus on the task at hand before you think of your own solitude. 

He cleared his throat, and the other three glanced up. “Of course we want you, Roman.”

“You….I guess that’s an interesting plot twist, if you all truly want him back,” the Playwright whispered into his hands, rubbing them together in front of his mouth, “But you’ll have to convince him. Roman, not….not just the Prince form.”

“Convince you?” Deceit whispered.

The Playwright shook his head. “Him. Roman. All seven of us. And–And not all of us are friendly or docile. And not all of us are forthright, or understood, or easily interpreted.”

Truly an endeavor, if they couldn’t even get into the imaginary kingdom. Deceit stepped back, pursing his lips. He looked back at the rest of the group and, for once, they were all on the same page. “Alright, then.”

Virgil approached the Playwright first. His hands were balled at his sides but he seemed more level-headed than before. “Hey,” he said, leaning on the table besides the Playwright, “If it’s for Roman? Sign me up.”

“Me, too,” Patton said, determination lacing through his voice. He leaned on the other side of the table, meeting the Playwright’s skeptical eyes with a small shrug. “We need him.”

“As much as I am confounded by the Imagination, I agree that we need Prince Roman back. His absence leaves much to be desired,” Logan stood in front of the Playwright, arms resting behind his back.

The Playwright watched Deceit, eyes wide behind his glasses. He slowly gazed over each of the Sides, once again stopping on Deceit, who simply nodded.

This was real. 

He sniffed, and he laughed, lifting his glasses again to wipe his eyes. “That was so cliche,” he murmured, “And you’re all fucking saps. You’ve….well, I can’t say I’m difficult to handle, compared to everyone else. I’ll help you into the Imagination and see what I can do to help you find the other forms, but that’s all the deus ex machina I can perform.”

“You’re wonderful, Playwright,” Logan smiled at him, and the Playwright chuckled quietly.

“Rich, coming from you.”

“Um,” the Playwright turned to Patton, whose arms were open. “Can I? I know you said it felt weird, but, uh, I know Roman likes hugs when he’s feeling down, and I like hugs a lot, too.”

The Playwright blinked once, slowly, before leaning into the hold. Patton’s arms wrapped tight around his shoulders. 

It felt. 

Heavier than a cloud. 

He shivered, snuggling his body more into the hold. His hands grasped at the back of Patton’s polo, tugging him closer, if possible. The staticy and burning feeling of Patton’s arms pressing against him was more bearable than he’d thought it’d be. It was nice. Grounding, even, for a desperate piece.

“Thank you, Patton,” the Playwright mumbled into his chest. 

Patton laughed, squeezing him again. “Any time, kiddo.”

Left unattended, the Playwright probably could have stood there for hours. The lights in the room, ominously glowing from no direct source, seemed to glow brighter. With a sniff, though, the Playwright leaned back and rubbed his face, then clapped. 

“Alright! First, you all need to look through some of those,” he gestured to the left wall of costumes, “Because I refuse letting you go out and ruining the setting. Period dress only.”

“And it’ll give me some time to write in a mechanism for you to find the other forms,” he moved back over to the table, shuffling through his papers with an increased fervor as the other four sides followed. “Perhaps even the Prince, I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happened to him.”

“Period clothing? Doesn’t this count?” Deceit gestured to himself, “Don’t I look period enough?”

The Playwright stopped and shot him a deadpan look. “No.  That hat, in a medieval fantasy setting? The cape, maybe, but you can definitely find something more….functional,” His lip cocked up just a little when Deceit let out a dramatically offended gasp, “Go look, I’m sure there are some hats that’ll fit your fancy.”

Deceit turned back around, grumbling to himself but following the other three Sides in flitting through the clothes. As they found outfits that they enjoyed, they brought them to the Playwright, who conjured them into new colors and perfect tailoring without much comment on the outfits. All the while, he was to be scribbling something in a book, black ink flowing from the golden pen, muttering quietly to himself when the others weren’t near. After what seemed like hours, trying on outfits, discussing presentation with the Playwright, the four sat on the couch. 

Ready, supposedly, for what was to come. The concern and nervousness of earlier had mixed together, with a new spark of understanding and determination. They were going to get Roman back.

The lights grew brighter. 

The Playwright approached them, holding the book in his crossed arms. It looked like a simple leather-bound book, but the front was adorned with a pressing of the same ribbon-esque decal that was on the back of the Playwright’s vest. “This should help,” he said, holding the book out to the trio, “It….As you win over the other forms, the cover will update, and the inside will update with more about them and the world.”

Logan took the book and flipped it open. Sure enough, most of the pages were blank, but the first had a “Table of Contents” with one entry available: “the Playwright.” 

“Thank you, Playwright,” Patton said, reaching up and taking his hands, “I’m sure we’re gonna do great! After all, I can’t  _ imagine _ what’d go wrong.”

Deceit groaned, and Virgil snickered. The Playwright just smiled a tiny bit more. 

“I wouldn’t  _ dream _ of anything happening,” Deceit shot back, and Patton laughed.

The Playwright felt a twinge of something, in his chest. Something he couldn’t identify. Maybe another form would figure it out. 

“I wish you all the best of luck,” he said. 

“Wait,” Logan looked up from the book, “Are you coming with us?”

The Playwright’s smile widened. 

“Uh, Playwright?” 

He lifted a hand and snapped his fingers. 

The couch and the ground beneath them all disappeared. They all let out shouts and screams as they fell through the floor, into the pit, watching the Playwright and the costume room fade upwards into the distance. 


	5. i've got no strings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: sympathetic deceit, threats, minor character death, knives, swords, descriptions of blood, blood, cursing, panic, chaos, Getting Lost in the woods, crowds, arguing, a chase, mentions of a bear, loneliness, — if i’ve forgotten any, please let me know!!!
> 
>  
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> idk what to write here for this chapter, to be Fuckin Honest — this didn’t feel like a lot to write, and then i checked my wordcount and was like “woah! that’s the longest chapter” and i didn’t wanna cut it so here’s A Lot!! sorry for the super long chapter ;7;!!

_ “I’ve got no strings, so I have fun _ …. _ I’m not tied up to anyone….They’ve got strings but _ —”

“Would you shut up already? Of all the songs for you to be singing, too. Singing won’t get rid of me.”

“I can dream, can’t I?”

“Ppft. I don’t know, Dickhead in Distress, can you?”

“What’re you doing here, Dragon Bitch. Go kiss a mirror.”

“Just paying you a little visit. Excited to see you so vulnerable. Once I find the others, I’m gonna take a lot of pleasure in cutting your head off in front of them. Maybe we’ll even get a crowd.”

“I hope you never find them.”

“Then I’ll just kill you alone. Or maybe I’ll guillotine you! Oh, I’ll set up the most beautiful blade — cold steel, perfectly manicured and sharpened. Maybe that’ll actually draw them out of hiding, rolling your head along the main road, watching the blood paint the cobblestone red.”

“That’d….that’d hurt Thomas. Holy shit. You’re insane.”

“And you sicken me, what’s your point? You know I wouldn’t do that. Not with all your little lover boys in town.”

“What?”

“Didn’t you feel it? They finally checked in on us. Nerd Declassified Creativity Survival Guide let them in. It’ll be the coup of a century. And, if I find  _ them... _ .”

“Don’t hurt them.”

_ “They’ve got strings— _ ”

“—No, no come back here. Don’t!—”

_ “—but you can see—” _

“—Please, you can’t—”

_ “—there are no strings on me!” _

* * *

 

As Anxiety, Virgil has a running mental list of all the things Thomas perceived as dangers. Ergo, these were things Virgil didn’t want happening to him. He doesn’t like not knowing what’s at the bottom of the ocean. A drink left unattended at party was a potential danger. He doesn’t like being caught in a lie and doesn’t like having to be out socializing for unexpectedly extended periods of time.

Waking up in on the ground in a forest was pretty high on that list. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the blue sky, dotted with small clouds, through an opening of tree branches. 

He sat up, blinking his eyes more and trying to take in their surroundings. Dirt and leaves were stuck to his hair and the cloak he’d wrapped himself in. To his left was Patton, laying face down in a pile of leaves, and to his right was Deceit and Logan similarly splayed on the ground. 

Immediately Virgil thought the worst, but his worries alleviated when Deceit groaned, and Logan’s arms pinched in to push himself up. Patton sat upright as well, arms stretching around himself. 

“Well,” Patton hummed, “We’re not in Kansas anymore.”

The forest around them was thick, tall trees in every direction and stretching as far as they could see. They seemed to have landed in a small clearing, on a patch of grass and leaves and flowers, but still very much in the middle of the forest. 

“Here I thought the Playwright’d be helping us,” Deceit said, picking the leaves off of his coat, “This is ridiculous. We’re in a forest.”

“This isn’t good. Oh my God, this isn’t good — Logan, what do we know about edible berries?” Virgil asked, turning around in a few circles.

Logan looked around, mouth open as he assessed the situation. Then, he patted the inside of his coat, mumbling to himself. 

After standing up, Patton went to grab Virgil’s shoulders, stopping his spinning. “Don’t look around too much, kiddo, you’re gonna make yourself dizzy. And–And it’s okay! We’re in the Imagination now, and we’re gonna find Roman.”

“How’re we supposed to find Roman when I can’t even find the treeline?!” Virgil asked, grabbing Patton’s arms back, “And we just FELL. From the SKY.”

“Yeah, well….that can happen! It’s the Imagination, it’s okay. Besides, we survived! Roman wouldn’t let the Imagination hurt us,” Patton pulled him a little closer, patting his arm twice. 

Virgil grabbed Patton’s hand and yanked him closer to his chest, causing the moral side to let out a small “Woop!” and open his arms as well. There had to be a number of panic attacks in one day that the anxious side could take, some sort of pain threshold, and he was certainly on his way to reaching it. Deceit watched them hug for only a few seconds before turning around and looking for Logan. And, by proxy, the book. 

If the Playwright handed them a book saying that it’d help, calling it “deus ex machina,” then it likely had some sort of answer. Right?

It seemed Logan himself had the same thought, because he was sitting on the small stump, pressing his finger to it. Deceit approached and sat besides him. Logan had opened to a new page, one not indicated to earlier by the Table of Contents. “Imaginary Map” was the clever name, and the map itself stretched both pages. It didn’t indicate where they were, but there was a forest, a mountain range, and a lake, all forming a jagged triangle around what looked like a town. A small river ran through the town, between the mountains and lake. There was a compass in the bottom left corner as well, cardinal directions written in the Playwright’s neat but floppy handwriting. 

“It’s a safe assumption that we’re somewhere here,” Logan circled the forest area, “But I cannot tell where the sun is.”

“If it follows a pattern. Roman’s been known to keep it on daytime for much longer than just one day,” Deceit said.

Logan shrugged. His foot was tapping on the ground, rubbing the corner of the page between his fingers. There were a lot of questions he had and a lot of feelings he didn’t understand. Why had Roman done this? It was excessive, to break oneself into pieces like he had allegedly done. 

And he hadn’t ruled out the possibility that Roman had just dressed up different, was putting them through this story for god knows what reason. That Roman was upset about something or other, and thus had set up a narrative that held the other Sides at fault, with him sitting in his room safe and sound. Did Logan find that easier to explain? Perhaps. Did he want that? He was merely thinking of all the potentially logical explanations for Roman’s behavior.

He blinked when Deceit put a hand on his. “You’re gonna tear the page,” he said, voice quiet.

Slowly, Logan nodded, though he didn’t remove his hand from Deceit’s. The comfort was welcome at this time. “Thank you.”

They both examined the map, opening the book further when Patton and Virgil approached to see, the later having calmed down.

Virgil immediately pointed to a small gap between the tree drawings, then pointed to biggest tree drawing in the forest — it looked like the other trees, just slightly bigger. “I think we’re in this gap thing. And we gotta head to that tree,” he stood up straight, cupping his hands around his eyes and looking at the sky.

Logan glanced at him, then back at the map. “What makes you say that?”

“Big tree. First checkpoint, like in a video game,” Virgil said, “Wanna stare at the sun with me?”

Deceit carefully took the book from Logan’s hands, and Patton slid into Logan’s seat as he vacated it. He went to stand besides Virgil, lifting his glasses to the top of his head and watching the sun as well. Well, they weren’t staring straight at the sun, because that was dangerous. More like they were trying to figure out where it was in the sky through the thick tree coverage. Either way, it looked like they knew what they were doing, so he looked away. Patton hoped they knew what they were doing. 

“Patton,” Patton glanced up from where he was fiddling with his shirt’s drawstrings, “You’ve been quiet.”

Deceit was watching him with a raised eyebrow beneath the bycocket hat that had replaced the bowler. Though, his hair was falling out of place beneath it. Patton leaned forward as he answered. “Oh, you know. Just worried’s all.”

Deceit stiffened when Patton cupped his cheek and slid the hair back into the hat, but he just kept talking. “I mean. It feels bad. Roman didn’t even tell us how he’d been feeling. And does that mean he’s been doubting himself this whole time? He thinks we don’t like him, and I know for a fact that that’s wrong.”

Patton sat back, crossed his legs, and nodded to himself. “We love Roman. I,” he trailed off, and then chuckled quietly, “I know I love Roman, a lot. We–We’re best friends!”

“And yet, he didn’t disclose his feelings.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what hurts about this all. But that just means we have to make sure he knows we love him! We’ve just gotta sure he knows so well that he doesn’t question it anymore!”

Deceit raised an eyebrow at Patton’s explicit and tunnel-visioned optimism. Judging by the shine in the moral side’s eyes, though, there was nothing Deceit could say to convince him otherwise. 

Ah, curse them all and their stubborness. Deceit would have to find a good time to address that with Patton, to be honest. It always hurt, a little, when he caught Patton beating himself up over failing to emotionally connect with the other Sides. Nothing that a cuddle and some cookies wouldn’t stave off, but Deceit was….well, this whole endeavor with Roman was showing him that he couldn’t keep “staving off” the other Sides’ problems. 

He shook his head, clearing it, and both him and Patton looked up to the sound of crunching leaves as Logan and Virgil made their way closer. 

“East, right?” Virgil stuffed his hands into his pockets, pulling his thick cloak tighter around himself as he did so.

“Very much so. At least that will give us nearly a full day to find the forest’s edge. From there, we will be able to discern the distances between objects,” Logan said.

“It better not be too far. I don’t wanna be spending the night in the woods.”

“Well, sleeping in a forest is not ideal, though I have enough of an idea on how to arrange a lean-to that we may be able to survive one night.”

Virgil tutted, shaking his head. “What if some animals find us? Like a really big bear or something?”

Logan paused and, for a second, Virgil was worried that he’d respond with some statistic about what kinds of bears live in forests with trees like this. What Logan said, though, was “We’ll throw Deceit at the bear and run,” just as they stopped in front of Patton and Deceit.

Virgil and Patton both snorted at the offended gasp Deceit gave. “How  _ dare _ !”

“Awh, Deceit, don’t worry! Logan’s just joking,” Logan opened his mouth to clarify that, yes, he was posing a hypothetical suggestion to alleviate Virgil’s worries, “We just couldn’t  _ bear _ that!”

Logan rolled his eyes, pointedly ignoring Patton’s grin. Well, alright then. He clapped, drawing attention back to himself. “Okay. The sun is still rising, in that direction,” he pointed with one arm, “And, compared to the map, Virgil’s supposed first checkpoint is in that direction,” he shifted his arm.

“Although we don’t know distances comparatively to this map, I can only assume that if we walk continuously in that direction, we will soon find the large tree. That will also help us figure out the comparative distances on the map.”

After a round of agreements, the four Sides gathered themselves and began their trek, Logan leading the way with the book’s map open in front of himself. Some woodland creatures were about. Patton pointed out a squirrel, two squirrels, a bird (a swallow, according to Logan) and they’d even seen a deer in the distance. 

There were still some loose ends to tie before this supposed quest, Deceit thought. He slowed his walk so he was in line with Virgil, who was bringing up the rear.

“Sssso.”

Virgil glanced at him from the corner of his eye, quick, before starring forward again. “What?” 

“Truce,” Deceit was watching Virgil, lips pinched in thought.

Virgil stopped, as did Deceit. He turned to fully face him, brow pinched tight and mouth open in a small O. It looked like he was trying to weigh his options, or, Deceit considered, weigh a new insult.

“We have had our differences, Virgil. And I cannot say that I fully trust you either. But I think, for right now, we….should work together. I plan on working with you,” Deceit’s eyes narrowed when Virgil’s scowl deepened. “For Roman’s sake. At least.”

Virgil kept glaring at him. Deceit wasn’t sure if Logan and Patton had stopped walking, he wasn’t keen on taking his eyes off of Virgil. Since their steady falling out, he’d regarded Virgil as more of a live wire than anything else. He was a leading factor in stifling Thomas’ interactivity, after all, and that was detrimental to Thomas’ development as a human being. They very much had their historic differences. But, given Virgil’s display of protection in the Mind Palace….while Deceit wasn’t a fan of being immediately attacked, he understood the reasoning behind the decision. Fight or flight.

They held their stare-off for only a moment longer, until Virgil blinked, looking away towards the other two Sides. “You’re right. For Roman’s sake,” he added the last part softer, regret laced through his voice. 

That was good enough, Deceit supposed. He started after Logan and Patton — they hadn’t stopped, and were two blue dots in the distance — when Virgil called after him. “Hey, Deceit?”

“Yes,” he looked at Virgil, who was tugging at his cloak’s sleeves, jaw set.

“I’m sorry. For attacking you earlier,” he said, quiet and strained. 

Deceit’s eyebrow raised. That was unexpected, Virgil apologizing for a reaction. “It was understandable. I entered where I shouldn’t have, without forewarning. And you were already tightly wound from Roman’s extended disappearance.” 

“Maybe it was valid, yeah, but still,” Virgil followed after him, steps slow and eyes trained not on Deceit’s face but his chin. “‘M sorry.”

Virgil felt a hand brush his and looked down to see Deceit holding his hand out, open for Virgil. “It’s okay, Virgil,” the other’s voice was so soft now, “Just some steps backward, and more steps forward to come.”

There were about a million things Virgil thought to say. Something about how that was just mumbo jumbo, something about hanging out with Patton too much, something else about how untrue that could be. 

But something about the way Deceit’s hand was shaking, the way his snake eye twitched, like he was fighting an impulse, drove home that he honestly believed it. And, for Virgil, that was all he needed to take his hand and keep walking. 

They’d been walking for maybe fifteen minutes total before coming across another clearing, this one much wider, with a thick oak tree in the center. Was it oak? The bark was reminiscent of an oak, but the tree itself was so big that it seemed more like a redwood. 

Patton began walking around the tree, looking it over, while Virgil and Deceit followed behind Logan. He was the first to approach, drawing his hand down the bark as though feeling every etching. 

“Well. This is your checkpoint,” Logan said.

“I don’t see how it’s so significant that it had to be marked on a map,” Deceit said, tilting his head upward, squinting into the light to see how tall the tree was.

“Just a hunch. I don’t really, either, other than….it’s big.”

“Maybe it’s just a big tree? Does Roman usually just make things like this?”

“I don’t know. I try not to interact with Roman’s creative process, especially his pet projects, similar to how he does not interact with mine,” Logan looked around, “We should walk the perimeter. There may be something different.”

Deceit and Virgil both nodded, and then turned in opposite directions. Logan followed after Virgil, one hand touching the tree still, and they found Patton first. 

The moral side was on his tip-toes, examining something on the tree’s trunk. “What’d you find, Pat?” Virgil’s voice surprised Patton enough that he stumbled back a little.

“Ah, sorry!” Virgil checked on him, but Patton waved him off.

“It’s okay! I just got a little spooked — that’s a door.” Logan and Virgil looked at where Patton’d been inspecting.

Sure enough, there was a light circled outlined on the bark in black chalk. Logan moved closer immediately, taking a knee to inspect. There was a door-sized circle drawn on the bark, as well as a fully-blacked out circle where one would expect a handle, and a small keyhole drawn in just beneath. 

In the center of the door was Roman’s crest, also drawn in with black chalk. Written beneath the crest was  **“A place for solitude.”**

Logan squinted at the words, mouthing them quietly. He ran a thumb over the words and, finding them unchanged, rubbed a little harder. None of the chalk was coming off. Curious. 

One could expect Roman to have magic in his world, given the present fantasy elements. This seemed to Logan like it could be the first indication of magic. 

“What do you think that means?” Logan turned around, finding Deceit, Virgil, and Patton all standing behind him. 

Logan looked back at the door and stood up slowly. “....I’m not sure. I don’t know how this world  _ works _ ,  so trying to predict what it might mean could lead to the wrong assumptions, but it feels like something outside of reality.”

Patton nodded, and rubbed his own arms. They were lonely words indeed, and while it was a tree trunk, Patton was sure it led to something else. “Do you mean like magic?” 

“It looks like we’re not getting in, if this is even a door,” Deceit stepped back as he spoke, “I don’t know how we’d even try to open it. We should try to find the road to town.”

“But this door’s got Roman’s crest on it. Another Roman’s probably in there,” Virgil said.

“There’s no way for us to get in, and it’s unconfirmed that this even a doorway. Plus, if it is another Roman, he probably heard us by now. He might not want to see us.”

“How would he have heard us?”

Deceit pointed up to a few feet above the door’s drawing. There was a circular window, seemingly without any glass. 

“Hey L, has the map updated or anything?” Virgil asked, still looking at the window.

Logan frowned, pulling the book from his jacket. He flicked open the Table of Contents with emphasis, but stopped and spread out the page. There was a new section that had been scratched out, beneath “The Playwright,” and Logan couldn’t make out the words. Hm. 

He opened the Imaginary Map, at the back of the book. The tree that they were at had been colored in with a dark brown trunk and bright green leaves, and had been labeled.

“The Playwright has named this tree ‘The Thief’s Nest,’” Logan said as he scanned the page, “Beyond that, nothing has changed.”

“Alrighty, so the Thief lives here! We’ll have to check back when he’s home and maybe he’ll let us in?” Patton nudged Logan, gesturing for him to follow.

“I find it unlikely that someone who describes their home as ‘a location for solitude’ would allow us entrance,” Logan stood up, looking at the Book again, “But I suppose we don’t have any other option. We should start in that direction.”

Patton nodded, a smile on his face. “Maybe we’ll be able to  _ steal _ him away from his loneliness!”

His pun was met with an angry huff.

“Wow, it looks like Patton  _ stole _ the air from your lungs,” Deceit quipped, “And here I thought thievery was wrong.”

He and Virgil had already started in the direction Logan had pointed to, a few steps away from them. Logan groaned at the pun, walking past Patton and ignoring Virgil’s snickering as he continued to lead their way out of the forest.

Finding the edge of the forest was simple — the map had shown that the distance between the Thief’s tree and the clearing that they’d landed in was actually shorter than the distance from the tree to the forest’s edge, confirming that the distances on the map were precise, to a comparative extent.

Once they got through the treeline, Virgil pointed out the road, only a short distance away, and they were soon on the path. On the horizon was a large castle, looking nearly as tall as the mountains behind it. The Sides could make out some buildings below it, sprawling and larger as they grew closer. This must be the town on the map. It was surrounded by a wall but there was a gate on their path, its doors open.

There was probably no harm in entering an unguarded door, Deceit had reasoned. They went in.

The town was certainly bustling, more people walking around as they walked along the road. Windows were open, store-fronts had crowds standing before them. Upon first entering, there were only one or two shop stalls between the streets, the more they walked but the deeper they got, the more stalls and stores there were; there were more people scattered around, talking in hushed voices or mulling around doorways. The buildings grew taller, too, the closer to the castle they got. Still semi-in the distance though much closer now was the castle, a towering figure with light-grey walls and red 

The group held each others’ clothing ends as they slowly pushed into a large market-place area, such like a town square. Virgil was looking around, arms tucked in close and body pressing even closer to Logan as the crowd densified around them. Someone in the crowd caught his eye, though, and he squinted.

Slowly, he pointed his hand out in front of Logan and Patton. “Isn’t that the Dominos delivery guy?”

“Maybe — hey, that kinda reminds me of that one thing we saw on Tumblr, about how every face we see in a dream’s a face we’ve seen in real life,” Patton tapped his lip thoughtfully.

Virgil saw the gleam of getting to explain something in Logan’s eyes. As soon as Patton said “that one thing,” he frantically signaled from Logan’s left, waving his hand across his neck to call ‘cut.’ But the deed was done.

“Actually, that would imply that the human mind is unable to create new faces, but that hasn’t been proven in a way that can be measured. According to a media article published by Stanford University’s Neuroscience Department, there are many ways that the human dreamlike state’s facial recognition cannot be calculated in an adequate way, including that such a test would involve precise knowledge of every face that a person has seen throughout their lifetime, including passing strangers. Though it’s heavily implied, due to how humans use REM sleep to store memories—”

“Hang on, hang on,” Deceit waved a hand at them, drawing immediate silence, “Listen.”

They both stopped, Virgil flicking his hood off so he could better hear. Patton was already looking around, trying to find where it was coming from.

_ “A dream is a wish your heart makes” _

“Yep, that’s him,” Virgil murmured.

Patton pointed to the left and Deceit nodded. “Let’s go,” Deceit said, before Patton grabbed his arm and tugged him down the road.

They both immediately picked up a brisk fast-walk, jogging after the music, with Logan and Virgil right on their heels. 

_ “When you’re fast asleep~” _

“Is this going to be a trend, do you think? Following music?” Logan huffed quietly, “It seems to be a motif.”

“Motif?” Virgil asked.

“Yes. Given how the Playwright was discussing this whole scenario, it seems that some literary devices will be used to aid us in finding Roman. The use of music, specifically Disney music , may be a way to lead us, the protagonists, towards the next plot point.”

_ “In dreams you lose your heartaches~” _

Virgil pursed his lips. “You know, I don’t know if we get to be meta here.”

“Why wouldn’t we? We’ve done so in multiple episodes, for comedic relief,” Logan said. Patton and Deceit rounded around a corner, and there seemed to be a soft ukulele accompaniment to the singing. 

“Well,” Virgil said, as he and Logan jogged after them, “I don’t know if we’re allowed to break the fourth wall in fan—”

Deceit and Patton had stopped just around the corner, and Virgil slammed into Patton’s back, making him stumble forward a few steps. Logan stopped himself, tripping on his feet but being caught by Deceit and held steady.

“Oh, shoot, sorry,” Patton helped Virgil upright, “We just found him.”

_ “Whatever you wish for, you keep~” _

There was a small crowd, only about twenty people, gathered around a set of five barrels. And Roman.

Well. One of the Romans, they all reminded themselves, because this certainly wasn’t their prince. He was wearing a loose white tunic shirt and a red vest trimmed with gold, all of which was tucked into a bright red waist-sash. Beneath the sash was a pair of puffy pants tucked into knee-high black boots with golden heels. His hair was messy, swept up and blowing around in nonexistent wind.

“Didn’t the Playwright say something about every Roman having part of his crest?” Patton asked, tilting his head.

“He said that the book’s cover would update with parts of his crest as we talked to more of the Romans, not that they each would be adorned with the crest,” Logan looked at the book’s cover, then flipped it open to the Table of Contents. 

_ “Have faith in your dreams, and someday~” _ the Roman’s voice rang clear as day over the hushed crowd, even over the bustling sounds of people walking past.

A new section appeared, a sub-section of “The Playwright” called “Authors Notes.” That definitely hadn’t been there prior. Logan squinted and began flipping to it, but was interrupted by Virgil nudging him and pointing.

“He is wearing the crest, I think. Look at his pants.”

The Roman’s pants had a jagged designs on them, red pants with golden stitching in a zig-zag and with small gold circles around it. “Doesn’t it look like his crest’s mountains and swirly whatever’s?” 

….He supposed Virgil had a point. 

The Roman stood up on the barrel and struck a pose while strumming on the ukulele. He was watching someone in the crowd, smile broad as the sky. 

Then, he hopped from one barrel to another, making a pose as he did so.  _ “Your rainbow will come shining through~” _ he spun on the barrel on the word “rainbow,” and Virgil stiffened. 

“He has good balance and coordination,” Logan placed a hand on Virgil’s shoulder, rubbing gently, “He didn’t fall off the ladder, and he’s will not fall off the barrels.”

“....What if you’re wrong,” Virgil hissed.

Logan raised his eyebrow at Virgil, as though daring him to repeat that sentiment. Virgil just rolled his eyes and glowered back at the Roman. 

“So,” Patton turned around and whispered to the group, “We….probably have to talk to him.”

_ “No matter how your heart is grieving~” _

“We definitely need to talk to him,” Deceit said, turning his head towards Patton, “But to do so we’re also gonna have to interrupt his performance.”

“Do you think we can just wait until he’s done?” Virgil tugged at his sleeves, watching the Roman do a twirl after another jump, one leg kicked into the air, “Maybe he’s got good coordination, but if we interrupt him, and he gets really shocked, and he falls over—”

“Then one of us can catch him. I do agree, though, that intervening is not the best course of action. It may upset this iteration of Roman.”

“Alright, then, how about we wait until the song’s over?”

_ “If you keep on believing~” _

“It’s almost over, right?”

“I think this verse repeats?”

“How….how do you not know how this song goes? Isn’t this Princey’s ringtone?”

“I don’t know. I don’t typically retain the memory of lyrics, that is overseen by Roman, and I don’t listen to his ringtone. I just retain facts, schedules, and our internal clock, among my other duties.”

“And yet you’ve memorized the Rainforest Rap?”

“Let’s not hound Logan for his music tastes, Black Parade.”

_ “The dream that you wish will come true!” _

All four of them were startled by the uproarious applause that broke out. They looked up to see the figure laughing, leaning forward from the front-most barrel to high five someone in the crowd. As he leaned in, he acted like he was listening to something, ukulele held high and away in the gesture. His movements were was comical and exaggerated, hand cupping his ear, legs in a bent splits over the barrel.

“....D’you think they all have names like, ‘the position-name’?” Virgil asked, watching the Roman lean back up, do a backflip onto another barrel,“Because I think this one’s a clown.”

“Perhaps he’s the performer,” Logan suggested.

“Oh! Maybe he’s the thespian!” Patton clapped.

“We just missed his mid-song break,” Deceit said, pinching the bridge of his nose as the Roman began strumming his ukulele again,  “Oh my God, we missed his song break.”

Virgil nudged him with his elbow. “It’s not like he’s going—”

“STOP! THIEF!”

The four Sides, along with most of the civilians who’d been watching the performance, all turned around around. Behind them were some taller buildings, fluctuating between three and four floors of height. After craning their necks, trying to find the source of the yell, Virgil tapped Logan’s chest and pointed. 

Four buildings down, running along the building’s rooftop, was a man. He had a large black cloak, covered with deep red patches, that billowed after him. That was all they could see from this distance. 

Fortunately, they weren’t the only ones who had spotted the man on the roof. 

“Hey, Aladdin!” the performing Roman shouted, cutting himself off by waving his ukulele into the air, “Stealing from the dragon’s hoard again?”

“Aw, shut up and get running, Sir Talks-a-lot!” came the reply.

The Roman laughed, loud and brash, but only Patton turned toward him. He saw the performing Roman jump off of the barrel he’d been standing on, into the crowd and disappearing from Patton’s sight. 

_ “One jump! Ahead of the breadline!” _ he sang, strumming the ukulele once, harshly, before the crowd around him dissolved into shouting, running, and chaos,  _ “One swing! Ahead of a sword!” _

Patton looked back up at the running figure. The cloaked man jumped off of one of the roofs, pirouetting mid-jump and throwing something at the guards. Two of them dodged, but one was struck, falling over. Virgil flinched as he noticed the fallen guard had been hit with a throwing knife, the handle wrapped with a bright red fabric. 

He tugged Deceit’s arm, hissing at the other two, “We’ve gotta follow him.”

“Do you think that’s another Roman,” Logan asked. He glanced at Virgil, who nodded before immediately running in the direction of the cloaked figure and guards.

Deceit opened his mouth, but was shoved to the side by another person in passing. “Hey, watch it!” he snapped, looking around to see who’d pushed him. 

Laughter, childish laughter. He looked down to see a young boy with messy light brown hair and a black cloak. The boy turned to him, cupping his hands around his mouth. 

“Sorry, mister Deceit! I’ve gotta run!” the golden brooch that pinned the child’s cloak together glistened in the light.

Logan and Deceit heard Patton’s breathing hitch when he saw it was the sun from Roman’s crest. Another one. 

“You know, the Playwright implied it’d be hard to find them all,” Deceit mumbled. 

A guard shouted, something indecipherable, but the child took is cue. He turned and kept running, away from them all. 

“Wait,” Patton shoved Logan to the side and ran after the child, “He’s–He’s just a kid—!”

“God damnit,” Deceit hissed, pressing shoulders with Logan as they both turned in opposite directions. 

They looked at each other, then the stage. The crowd had completely cleared now, chaotic as people ran away from the multiple groups of guards. The Roman they’d seen performing earlier was nowhere in sight, barrels kicked over, though….they could hear faint singing from beyond the wall. 

“We should regroup later,” Deceit said, “Right here. Tomorrow morning, if need be.”

“After sunrise. You follow Virgil, I will follow Patton,” Logan responded.

He patted Deceit’s back and they pushed off of each other, taking off in their own respective directions. 


	6. god help the outcasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Minor character death, falling, swords, stabbing, swearing, lying (funnily enough, its Patton and Logan), a chase scene, touch starved (implied), isolationism (implied) — if I missed anything else, please let me know!!
> 
>  
> 
> uh oh gang, lets split up! this one was super fun to write, and i hope it's equally fun to read! 
> 
> enjoy!! <3 <3

“Patton!”

Logan rounded another corner, chasing after Patton’s grey cat-cloak. The moral side had gotten such a head start that the cloak was all Logan could use to make sure he was still following the correct person. They’d been running for God knows how far — Logan knew it’d been exactly thirteen minutes and forty seconds, forty one seconds, forty two, forty three since they started, but distances were more difficult to judge.

Patton swerved to the left, disappearing, and Logan swore as he rushed after. Curse their lack of desire to go to the gym, specifically his lack of desire to work out between moments while designing a better regiment for Thomas’ life. ….Wait, why hadn’t Logan worked more gym time into that regiment? Curses.

He turned the corner and spotted Patton standing in a doorway. This street was empty, not a fellow soul to be spotted. He jogged to the doorframe and immediately huffed.

Logan leaned on the building, gripping the door frame with one hand while the other rested on his knee as he bent over panting. His mental count was telling him that he had just run over a mile, but that couldn’t be right, could it? His chest certainly felt like it had been an hour. They’d only been running for fourteen minutes and twelve seconds. He tilted his head up, pushing his glasses up as well while shooting Patton a quizzical look.

Patton seemed tired, too, breathing heavily but slower. He sat with his knees bent, his butt resting against the doorframe as he caught his breath. His head was turned toward the door, brow furrowed in what Logan knew was his Fatherly Concern look.

He stiffened, though, and Logan took two more breaths before asking.  “Why are we outside? Is the—”

“Shush,” Patton hissed, waving his hand, “Ask me about the weather!”

Logan’s confused scowl deepened, mouth cracking open. Patton’s ability to interject any situation with asinine ideas was not welcome at crisis moments like this. Besides, there was a weird ringing in the distance, and they had to do something about that.

“Or, or, or! We can talk about the mirror cake recipe I found!” Patton stood up straight now, leaning on the door with his shoulder, voice loud. “I think Rosanna Pansino made one a long time ago and while we were in a Youtube hole the other night, I found the video, and it looks super cool. I don’t think it’ll be easy, Teach, but if you want, you can definitely—”

He immediately shut up, mouth curling in on itself as four armor-clad guards marched around the corner. They stomped in unison, armor jingling, all the way to the door frame in which Logan and Patton stood. 

“Excuse me, citizens,” the guard’s voice, they heard, seemed to warp pitch while he spoke, “Have you seen a young boy wearing a dark cloak pinned with a golden brooch?”

Patton blinked. “Why, no, we haven’t! Isn’t that right, Lo—er, Loraine?”

There was something untrustworthy about these guards. Logan nodded vigorously in agreement. “Yes, we haven’t seen anyone come down this road for twenty three minutes, officer. It’s been very quiet.”

The guards all stared at them. Or, rather, it felt like they did. Each of them wore a helmet with a face mask, covering where they were looking. They all wore chainmail armor and a deep red leather over-shirt. Each also had a red cape and a sword strapped to their hip. On their shirts was golden embroidery, detailing Roman’s crest. 

That was confusing. The kingdom seemed to be under Roman’s control — the kingdom, Logan noted, was also the Imagination. Perhaps they were synonymous?  Roman wasn’t a whole being, though — the thought sent a jolt through Logan’s chest again — and if Roman wasn’t directing these guards, then who was?

“Have you seen a man with a scar on his face, wearing a black and red patchwork cloak?” the same guard asked, voice still echoing in and out of pitch.

Logan shook his head now. He didn’t know who these authorities worked for, but given that multiple iterations of Roman had fled , he wasn’t inclined to trust them. “No, sir, we haven’t. Like I said earlier, we haven’t seen anyone come down this road in over twenty five minutes.”

The guards paused for a few seconds again, and Patton caught their attention. “Um, why do you wanna find them?” he asked.

All four guards’ heads turned simultaneously toward Patton. He pressed himself against the door more, but his small, determined smile didn’t let up. “I’m just curious,” his voice was also as chipper as ever.

“They are enemies of the crown,” the guard said, “Have you seen a man in a red vest, white suit, and red waist-sash, possibly playing the ukulele?”

Alright, even without the whole possible-death situation, Logan was getting tired of the repetition. “No. I have told you no once about two people, and now I tell you now for a third time. No, we haven’t seen anyone in about twenty nine minutes.”

The thought crossed his mind to ask who the crown was here, but asking would have make it clear that him and Patton were not from this realm. The second best option, then, was to get rid of them. Logan straightened up while they were talking — Roman would have said something clever in response to that — and fixed his glasses angrily. “Can you please leave us to our conversation? Whoever you may be seeking could have easily gotten away in the six minutes you’ve spent interrogating us.”

The guards considered what he said. Without warning or acknowledgement or even exchanging words between themselves, they all turned back towards the road and marched off, armor clinking off itself. Patton leaned forward and looked around the doorframe. They both watched as the guards rounded the corner, going out of sight.

As the jingling of their armor died away, Patton let out a long breath, sliding down to squat against the wall.

“Holy musical, Batman,” he joked, laughing to release some of his own tension, “That was a close one."

“It seems there is still a power figure in this kingdom, despite Roman not being here to oversee it,” Logan mumbled, squatting himself opposite of Patton, taking the Playwright’s book from his coat.

He flicked it open, looking at the Table of Contents, which listed “the Playwright” and “Authors’ Notes,” then “Map.” It hadn’t updated with any new “Cast,” as the section was titled, despite Logan’s assuredness that they’d just run from three other Romans. No new sections were added at all, actually.

Now that he thought about it, he should read the Authors’ Notes section. That might have more information on the child, perhaps.

Maybe they should check on the child.

Oh my God, the child. Logan closed the book and looked up at Patton, whose head was resting on his hand. 

“The child,” Logan whispered, watching Patton’s face go from one of calm to alarm. It seemed that they’d both forgotten why they were lying to the guards.

“Oh, goodness,” he exclaimed, standing up and throwing the door open.

Inside was a wheat storage house. There were bales upon bales of hay, stacked in rectangle grids. Patton bolted in, feet crunching on the loose wheat scattered along the ground, and he cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey! Kiddo! Are you in here?” he stage-whispered.

Logan closed the door as quietly as he could behind them. He stepped into the room, facing it fully and looking around. 

“It doesn’t look like there are any exits, though the child could have burrowed through the ground. Or hidden himself in one of these bales of hay,” Logan said, sliding the book back into its pocket, “Roman? Are you in here?”

Patton’s hands clamped over his mouth and even Logan held his breath. 

No response. 

After a few seconds of waiting, Logan exhaled. “He must have left.”

“No way,” Patton said, “He can’t have, he’s in danger out there!”

“I’m sure the danger hasn’t stopped him before. Perhaps that’s why he knew to come here.”

“Maybe. But–But we should still walk around and see if we can—”

“Mister Logic?” 

Logan nearly jumped out of his skin, stumbling back as he looked down. There the child was, standing right besides him, hand just a hair away from holding his. When he jumped back, the kid leaned away as well, arms coming in to hug himself. 

Patton also jumped, letting out a scream behind his hands. He opened them up, mouthing “oh” quietly. 

Both adult Sides’ eyes were glued to the kid. He looked exactly as Thomas did when he was about 10, with disheveled but straight dirty-blonde hair in a bowl cut that puffed up around the cloak’s hood. The kid’s eyes were as wide as theirs, taking in the sight before him with amazement.

“Did the knights leave?” he asked, and Patton’s heart nearly broke at how terrified he sounded.

“Yes,” Logan answered,  fixing his collar and smoothing himself down. “The guards are gone. We told them you had already run away.”

“What’s your name, kiddo?” Patton squatted down to be equal height with the kid.

“My name’s the Child!”

“Your name is just….the Child?”

The Child nodded, a large beaming smile growing on his face. “Yeah! But sometimes Bard calls me ‘Toulouse!’ Or ‘Hercules!’ Or ‘Chip!’ Or ‘Arthur!’ Thief calls me ‘Lil’ shit,’ but I don’t know what Disney movie that one’s from.”

“He calls you—” Patton’s offended voice was cut off by Logan’s hand waving. 

“Are the Bard and Thief other Romans?” Logan asked, voice soft. He was speaking to a child, after all.

The Child grinned — Patton almost squealed, the kid was missing a front tooth, oh, he was precious — and nodded, sticking his thumb towards the brooch. “Yep! I’m Roman and they’re Roman too! Bard takes care of me mostly, but he’s always moving around, so the Artist helps out. Sometimes the Thief helps, too, but the Thief’s kinda mean.”

The Thief must have been the character running across the roofs, Logan thought. The Bard was probably the one they saw performing. Unless that was the Artist. Either way, there were three more confirmed Romans. Deceit had been right — this would be easier than the Playwright had suggested. “Is there any way we can meet them all?” he asked.

The Child nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! They’re gonna be so happy to see you,” he suddenly shivered, posture stiffening as he made grabbing hand motions at Patton, “Mister Morality?”

“Yeah, kiddo?” Patton squatted down again, until he was eye level with the Child, “What can I do for you?”

He found himself wrapped up in the Child’s arms. Patton blinked in surprise, but hugged him back all the same. 

Warmth. Comfort. Safety. Love. 

“Kiddo?”

Love, love, love, love, love. 

“Are you alright?”

Love, love, love,  _ love, love, love love lovelovelovelovelove _

“....”

Patton shared a worried look with Logan and wrapped an arm around the Child’s legs. “Mind if I pick you up?” he asked, whispering.

“Yes, please,” the Child’s mouth was pressed against Patton’s shirt collar, slurred from the hug’s tightness. He felt dizzy, like he’d inhaled too much helium and laughed too hard at the sound of his own voice and now he couldn’t breathe. Like he’d gone underwater and watched the clouds but forgot to let out bubbles. Like something was holding his chest down too tight, not caring if he was going to get hurt, and he found that he didn’t care either. 

Patton stood up again, holding the Child against his chest as he snuggled even more into the hug. “....Did you just want a hug?” he asked, adjusting his hold better.

“Mhm. And I know mister Logic doesn’t like–he doesn’t like touching, ‘cause he always throws me off and gets mad. But you’re soft when you hug me, mister Morality,” the Child squeezed his eyes shut, tucking his face in Patton’s chest.

Logan opened his mouth. He’d felt offended. No, he didn’t always push Roman off of himself. But the words wouldn’t come. Logan knew he wasn’t as good with emotions, wasn’t fond of boisterous physical displays of such.

Why had that comment stung? He knew he wasn’t physical very often. Everyone knew?

He looked to Patton, who shrugged at him, one hand rubbing the Child’s back. Maybe the Child was more inclined to tactless honesty? If Logan had a pen, he would be taking notes, as it would be good to understand each of the different Roman forms. Damnit, he should have asked the Playwright for a pen.

They both looked when the Child yawned, snuggling closer to Patton. “Now, Child,” oof, that sounded vaguely threatening, “Erm. Kid. Ki–Kiddo. Roman?”

The Child giggled a little, looking up at Logan from over Patton’s shoulder. “You don’t usually say that, Mister Logic!”

Logan smiled back at the Child, lips pressed tight together. “Yes, well. It suits you.”

He squealed a little more, legs kicking out lazily, but Logan had more questions. “Where do you usually stay? And should we just refer to you as ‘Child’?”

“Yeppers peppers! And usually I live at the Artist’s house. He’s got a good hidey hole and he said he’d protect me.”

Protect. Who would be hunting a child? Patton’s hands tightened around him, giving Logan a worried look while Logan proceeded to talk. “If I showed you a map of the city, do you think you could tell us where his house is? We can carry you there. You seem very tired.”

“I am, today’s been a long day. Mmm. I think so.”

* * *

 

“Son of a bitch, son of a bitch, son of a bitch—” Virgil jumped up the wall, grabbing the second floor balcony railing and using that to hoist himself up. 

The vague knowledge he had of parkour was really coming in handy now, as he yanked himself up onto the roof. This form was already two buildings ahead, but Virgil wanted — no, he needed to protect him from the guards. He had to protect Roman. Once he got onto the roof, he immediately began running after the group, launching himself between the building gaps. 

“Virgil!” he stole a quick glance down to see Deceit running in line with himself. 

He huffed, breathing labored, and looked forward again. Deceit was with him. Fucking great, okay, that meant the other two’d split off somewhere. Maybe chasing the singing Roman. He couldn’t think about that right now, the adrenaline was pumping, making him focus on….

One of the two remaining guards caught up to the form. Fucking wonderful. 

The guard reached out, to grab the form’s cloak. Virgil’s throat clenched.

The form sidestepped and ducked, stopping his momentum almost immediately. The guard wasn’t so lucky as his arm swung out at air, over the edge of the building. His balance gone, he screeched and fell. 

The form laughed once, a loud brash “Ha!” and Virgil saw him turn to face the final guard. He ducked as the guard lunged at him with a sword. 

Virgil hopped over one last rooftop and huffed. “HEY,” he shouted.

Both the form and the guard stopped to look at him. Virgil was panting, but he still planted his left foot back and raised his hands into a fighting position. 

The guard blinked, then looked back at the other Roman form, who was stuck between the edge of the building. The form lifted his arms, shrugging, as though to say “I’m not with that guy.”

Then the guard stiffened. He fell forward, onto the rooftop, a silver-handled knife sticking up from his back. Virgil stood up straight, as did the other form.

“Merry bitchmas!” Deceit shouted from the ground. 

The form waved a hand down at him. Deceit could see, even three floors below, that this Roman was a bit more of a disaster. He had a long scar running across his cheek and down his jaw, and the flowing black cloak he wore was much too large for him and was covered in red patches. 

When did Deceit get weapons? Virgil kept his guard up as he approached. Wait, he wanted weapons, that wasn’t fair! Ok, he had to focus. 

Something about the patches, thick cloak, and general messy appearance indicated that this Roman may have taken inspiration from himself, similar to the Playwright and Logan. And if that was the case, then that meant this Roman may be more volatile. Approach with caution.

“....Roman?” he asked, hands loose at his sides, ready to move.

The cloaked figure was watching the bottom still, back to Virgil. Maybe he wasn’t a Roman?

“Not Roman?”

“I’m making sure Deceit doesn’t fall.”

His voice was surprisingly quiet. Virgil frowned and approached the edge. Below, Deceit was slowly climbing the side of the building by using the window ledges and water spouts. 

Deceit looked up at them, scowled, and began climbing faster. Virgil could even hear him grumbling under his breath, something about how he’s not built for this. The Roman snorted at whatever he was saying, stepping back as Deceit put a hand on the ledge; Virgil knelt down and grabbed Deceit’s arms, yanking him up onto the roof. 

“That was a waste of energy, but whatever,” Virgil checked over Deceit, ignoring the other Roman until he said, “I’m leaving.”

“Wait,” Deceit cleared his throat and motioned Virgil off of himself, grunting a quiet “I’m fine,” before continuing, “We were looking for you. You’re a Roman.”

The Roman squinted at him, pulling his cloak closed around himself. He turned his nose up. “Actually, I’m a Floridian.”

“So you are—wait, what?” Deceit scowled, “Of course you’re a Floridian, we're all from Florida. But you are a part of Roman, correct?”

“Why should I answer? And what’re you doing in the Imagination?”

He shifted his weight on his feet. Virgil squinted at him, examining how he held himself. His back was hunched, one hand pinching the cloak closed with his other hand sitting inside the cloak. Virgil couldn’t discern any part on the cloak that was like the crest, but the way he spoke indirectly said that yeah, he was a Roman. And seeing how this Roman’d acted, he was probably holding something beneath the cloak right now. Maybe a knife. Maybe a throwing knife. Maybe he was going to stab them. 

Oh, God, was he going to stab them?

“Virgil. Stop panicking. I can hear you internally screaming from here,” the Roman interrupted his thoughts, “I….I just didn’t know you’d gotten in. And I don’t understand why you’re here.”

Virgil exhaled, fingers uncurling from where they’d been unconsciously squeezing tight. Deceit watched him, studying how he calmed himself down. “We were looking for you, er, Roman. We want the Prince,” Deceit said. 

The Roman snorted. “That’s a first.”

“We’ve always wanted the Prince, and I’m getting tired of you all insinuating we didn’t,” Deceit snapped, taking a step forward. 

Virgil grabbed his arm, holding him back, while the Roman just raised an eyebrow. Whatever humor was left in the conversation evaporated as the silence sat thick between them all. 

The Roman opened his mouth, raising a hand to retort, but apparently thought better of it. 

He turned around, back towards them. 

Oh, God, he’s gonna run.

“Wait,” Virgil can’t stop himself, they can’t lose Roman again, “Wait, wait, wait, Deceit’s just upset, we’re all just upset. We miss you and want to help you get put back together. Can we talk this out a little first?”

The tension seems to grow. Virgil feels Deceit shake his hand, the one he’s gripping. 

“Tight,” he hisses, and Virgil immediately lets go. 

Deceit rubs his arm, shooting a glare at Virgil. Still on tense terms, even with each other. Virgil nodded at the Roman, though his eyes stayed glaring on Deceit for a moment longer before they both turned in unison. 

His cloak was now billowing a little around him, caught in the wind while his hands just stayed balled at his sides. Virgil was holding his cloak tight, though Deceit’s semi-cape thing was fluttering. 

To be honest, if the Roman hadn’t sighed, shoulders slouching over in defeat, Deceit was ready to yank him backwards himself.

“Alright. Fine. I don’t care why you’re here very much. You still shouldn’t be out and about Not while the guards’re running around. We can talk more later,” the Roman turned back around towards them and crossed his arms. That was when Virgil noticed his hands were gloved, in deep-red gloves.

Virgil nodded, slowly. “Okay. Thanks,” it felt like he was dealing with a toddler, or an animal, given how jumpy this Roman was. 

He waved his hand dismissively. “I just don’t want you two idiots to get caught up in all this. We're going back to my house."

“Idiots,” Deceit deadpanned, but Virgil shushed him.

“Thanks. What’s your name?”

The Roman raised an eyebrow at him and shrugged. “Technically? Roman. But for the sake of ease, you can call me the Thief.”

Virgil nodded. This was the one who’d prefered solitude. That made sense.

Deceit’s hands tightened, before he uncurled them and smoothed out his own coat. He didn’t think Roman had this sort of vagabond isolationist within him but, well. Perhaps he didn’t know Roman well enough. “Alright, Thief. Lead the way.”


	7. go the distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: cursing, arguments, yelling, like a lot of yelling, Complex Emotions, self-hatred (implied) — if I missed anything, please let me know!!! <3 <3 
> 
> WE'RE GETTIN' INTO THE GOOD STUFF Y'ALL — this was, arguably, the softest shit ive ever written in my entire life
> 
> enjoy!! <3 <3

It seemed that, without Roman’s focus, the Imagination sustained a regular day/night cycle. Logan made a mental note about it as they watched the sun go down behind the forest hills, perfectly in tune with his internal clock’s knowledge of the real world’s time. The sky, however, was darkening more rapidly than it would normally. While walking through the forest, he hadn’t noticed any incline changes, so perhaps the forests were thicker than he’d originally thought. The map didn’t indicate that, anyway. 

It was a fascinating place, the Imagination. It seemed semi-sentient — at least, based on how the Playwright described it and from what they’d seen so far. Logan regretted not asking to see more of it when Roman was….

No. He’d ask Roman to show him once Roman had returned. His chest hurt a tiny bit to think of it. Nothing was out of reach.

He faced forward again, marching silently. Patton was humming, had been for the whole trip, humming Disney songs. 

The Child was staring at Logan still. It was unnerving, for many reasons (A child? Roman was a fucking  _ child _ ? Why was he staring so much? How much less formed were each of the Romans? How did they select what they looked like? Who was the Child based upon? What did he believe?) so he looked away. 

“Stop,” the Child patted Patton’s back, “Stop here.”

“Ooookay,” Patton stopped, and Logan stopped behind him. 

They’d been walking towards the castle this whole time, away from the sunset. It was clearly huge now, with multiple large spires with red and glittering gold flags. Patton thought it looked straight out of a medieval movie, almost too grand to just be based on Disney alone, though it did bear some resemblances to the castle in Disneyland. It was incredibly pretty. 

Oh, sure, he’d seen the Imagination before. Patton and Roman had sat at the window in his room and Patton would listen to Roman as he talked about the various worlds he created. Sometimes it was a balcony with seats and a tea set, but he liked the window sofa more, since he and Roman could sit in each others’ laps and bundle up beneath a pile of blankets. Patton could recognize this castle from a distance. He’d seen this setting before, with the forest and large lake and glittering dual rivers that Roman’d named and then renamed and named again, though Patton couldn’t remember what names he finally chose.

Logan seemed surprised by it all, though, and Patton didn’t want to make it seem like he was rubbing his friendship with Roman in his face. Plus, he’d never been inside. Things were a lot bigger up close.

Yeah, he could see how Logan kept frowning around the world. How he’d been glaring at the Child for the whole walk. Patton’d made a pun — “This sure is a magic kingdom, eh?” — and he hadn’t even groaned! 

Patton shifted his weight on his feet, casting Logan a worried look as the logical side inspected the building before them. Whatever was eating at him, he hoped it’d settle soon, because Patton knew they’d need Logan thinking properly to get Roman put together. 

“We’ve gotta go in here,” the Child pointed to the building.

It was an unassuming door with two steps leading up to it, attached to a building that looked exactly the same as the others. Besides the door was a wooden sign, fixed to the stone wall, that read “Art Museum (Ages 3–6)”. It was a fairly unassuming building, similar to the other stone buildings to the left, right, and other side of the road.

“Okay,” Patton reached out and touched the door’s handle, just to be interrupted by the Child waving his arms up. 

“No! No, no, not yet!” he put his hands out.

“Not yet? Well, what’re we waitin’ for?” Patton put his hands on his hips, watching the Child with a small smile. 

“The sun is lowering. It will be night soon,” Logan added, giving the sky a quick glance again.

“But the Artist can’t know that you’re Dad and Mister Logic,” the Child said, mirroring Patton’s hands-on-hips position.

Logan, on the other hand, crossed his arms in thought. “Why can’t he know? Is he a danger?”

“Nah,” the Child shook his head and pointed a finger at Logan. “The Artist doesn’t like you most.”

Logan exhaled sharply. His brow furrowed, nose scrunched, as he processed THAT. Of course,the Playwright supporting him meant there was a counter. Of course Roman didn’t harbor  _ only _ positive feelings towards him. Logan knew his and Roman’s opinions differed on a multitude of topics, often resulting in unpleasant quarrels. He knew. And, yet, it hurt. “Come again?” 

“The Artist doesn’t like you. Don’t worry, he doesn’t like Mister Anxiety either. Or Mister Deceit. He kinda sorta likes Dad?” the Child made a so-so motion with his hands, before letting his shoulders drop with an exaggerated groan. “Not really. He doesn’t like Dad. It’s okay, he barely likes Thomas!”

Logan looked toward Patton with a frown, now thoroughly confused, and was greeted with a similar confused pout. There was a part of Roman who just didn’t like any of them. Not even Thomas. That upset Patton fairly well, but Logan….was almost relieved.

The Child waved his hands again, sticking them up in between the two adult Sides. “Hey! Like I said, that’s okay! We just gotta walk around him and he probably won’t notice you.”

“Do you think he won’t notice that three people have entered his house? Especially two adults. Two full Sides,” Logan couldn’t keep the disbelief from his voice.

If the Child noticed, he didn’t let on. “Yep! He barely looks up from the whatevers he’s working on, anyway,” he bounced on the balls of his feet, “Maybe….hm.”

He looked up at the sky and rubbed his hands together. Above them was a thick cloud. It would probably rain that night; they were still looking for him, anyway. 

The Artist was probably getting worried. Right? Curfew was coming up soon and if Child got caught, Thief and Bard would be upset, and so Artist would be upset, too, right?

“We have to go in. If he asks, uh,” an idea popped into the Child’s head, and he snapped his fingers. “You can say you’re Dad guy and Teacher guy!” 

Logan’s eye twitched. “Do you mean the characters from Thomas’ short videos?”

The last semblances of seriousness Logan held inside himself was shattered by the Child’s enthusiastic nodding. “Yeppers! They’re really nice! Teach is really good at making Dad laugh, and since this all happened, they’ve been—” 

“The Shorts characters are alive inside the Imagination,” Logan wasn’t even trying to hide his disdain anymore. 

He’d been half angry, half curious as they marched through the sleepy town. He could accept magic, sure, he could suspend his disbelief. It made sense that the Dominoes guy was in here. That was backed by science. But what in the name of Newton did the Shorts characters—

“Logan,” Patton held his hand and gave it a quick squeeze, “This is the Imagination.”

—okay, really, why the FUCK were the Shorts characters real in here?! — and the Child was now just rambling on about characters who were actually fictional. Characters who were characters. Scratch his curiosity from earlier, the Imagination followed no reason and he wanted out. Immediately.

Patton squeezed Logan’s hand again, in a rhythm, one two three four, tight, and raised his other hand toward the Child, who was still talking. 

“Hey, kiddo,” the Child immediately quieted, looking up at Patton, “This all sounds fun, but can we talk more about it when we’re inside?”

Patton immediately regretted interrupting him. The Child’s lip curled inward, eyes growing wider as he nodded silently. He looked at Logan, who was scowling at the door, and wilted. 

“Yeah. Not important. Okay,” the Child took the door handle and flung it open. 

Before Patton could respond, he darted in. Logan looked at Patton, scowl replaced with a confused raised eyebrow, oblivious to the quiet tension he’d missed while internally monologuing.

Patton just slouched. The Child was more skittish than he’d anticipated.

The museum was dark and dusty, though not unintelligible. Patton entered first. There were drawings everywhere, some on actual pieces of paper, some on torn-out notebook pages, some on the wall itself. All of which were children’s drawings, of course, scribbles and splotches of paint. In the halls were also some sculptures on pedestals, most seemingly made of Playdough.

He stopped by a drawing of a house, two windows and a door, and read the placard beside it. Patton was pretty sure he had the same drawing in his room, tucked away in an old photo album.

“Thomas and Roman Sanders. House 41, 1994. Crayon on cardstock.”

Patton felt tears coming to his eyes. Thomas was only five, oh those were good times, learning about the world around him! Such a soft era. And Thomas’ grown so much since then, too. 

This was an interesting place for someone to live, but considering his name was Artist, it made sense for him to live amongst his work. Patton turned around, a bright smile on his face, and motioned Logan to join him. “Logan! Come look at the art!”

Logan was standing just inside the door, which was closed behind him, eyes examining the exhibit. It was disorganized and clearly unkempt. Roman must not have visited in a while. Or maybe he didn’t have a curator for this museum. Before he could respond to Patton’s call, the Child’s voice echoed from down the hall.

“Are you coming?” 

Logan and Patton shared a look, one disgruntled and one sheepish, and hurried down the hall lined with childish artwork. There were more houses, some family drawings, a fun looking self portrait with bright colors. 

“Hurried” is an overstatement. Logan had to pull Patton away from a drawing on more than one occasion. 

“Down here,” the Child’s whispers bounced along the walls. 

They entered a room, still lined with drawings, and found the Child standing in front of one of the artworks. He held out a hand to them. “C’mon, we’re going in,” he said.

Logan squinted at the painting in question. Yes, painting, done in “Crayola Washable Paint on Cardboard,” according to the placard beside it. “Thomas and Roman Sanders. House 118.”

He looked at Patton for support that this was absolutely ridiculous, but was only met with another shrug. “It’s the Imagination,” he said, as though that explained everything, “Don’t think too hard, or you’ll get a headache.”

Too late for that, Logan thought, though he stopped himself from pondering. Instead, he grit his teeth and held Patton’s arm, determined to get to the bottom of this figurative rabbit hole. Patton himself took the Child’s hand. 

The Child gripped Patton’s hand and leaned toward the painting. He pinched the painted door’s handle, tugged.

They all felt a pulling sensation, the Child pulling Patton who pulled Logan.

And then there was a door before them. 

It was as though someone poured white paint all over their surroundings, from every angle, wiping away the museum they’d come from and leaving a blank emptiness behind them, all within less than a second.

Logan stared at the door. Then he turned, slow and steady, overlooking the blank white expanse. Like an empty page. 

Something wasn’t computing. It’s the Imagination, he repeated in his mind, like Patton’d said earlier. 

Directly behind them was the only piece of “world” they could see other than the door. It was another painting, of the museum, of the room that they’d just left, hanging in the middle of nothing.

Social realism, Logan thought. The painting’s placard read “Roman Sanders. The Art Museum repaint, 2019. Oil on canvas.” A reverse portal, created recently. Logan almost wanted to touch it and see how dry the paint was.

“C’mon, we gotta go inside,” the Child whispered, giving Patton’s hand a tug. 

Patton, in turn, tugged Logan, who turned back around. “Sorry, this is just….” fascinating? Interesting? Enchanting? Something I would like to experiment with Roman on further? “Different.” 

Patton watched the Child as he watched Logan. Roman was clearly still in there, Patton thought, and he didn’t want to be. And, to be frank, Patton understood that feeling. There were many days where he wanted to curl up into his hoodie and be young again, if only to hear a good joke once more. Those were the two-cookie kinds of days! 

Maybe Logan couldn’t see what Patton was seeing? The Child’s big wide eyes, staring at Logan and Patton as though searching for approval. Or how he tried so hard to ignore Logan’s obvious contempt for the situation. It was obvious that the Child was actively trying to ignore it, but Patton didn’t miss how he flinched at Logan’s tone. The Child wasn’t naïve, not entirely — in certain turns of phrase and side-glances, the Child revealed his thirty years of life experiences.

But the Child also didn’t seem to notice that Logan wasn’t angry about the world. No, Patton thought as Logan turned back to the museum painting quickly, he was more upset at himself for not being able to understand it. 

“Different,” Logan repeated, brow furrowed. It didn’t feel like the right word. He wasn’t usually one to have vocabulary troubles, but he couldn’t find a more adequate word. 

It satiated the Child. Or, rather, the Child was thinking of something else. His hand was stiff on the doorknob. Patton leaned in, letting go of Logan finally to put both hands on the Child’s shoulders. “Go ahead,” he whispered. He hoped the Child could feel how much Patton loved him.

Perhaps he did, because the Child calmed down. Enough for him to open the door.

The most notable thing was the mess. There were a lot of things inside that door. Canvases, sketchbooks, pens, pencils, paint sets, notebooks, cups of water, all in piles or scattered about the floor. Some canvases were hung on the walls, too, and some were laid flat on the ground. Others were stacked atop each other or leaned in bunches against the walls. There was a clear path through the mess on the floor, that branched to the stairs on the left and then into the kitchen on the right. Logan could see a drawing tablet over there, too, propped against the wall. Where the laptop was, he couldn’t tell. Patton could see that most of the paintings were unfinished. Whether it be sketch lines still showing or just clearly half-painted, half-white canvases, not a single finished piece was in this clutter. 

The second most notable thing was the person painting. 

Another Roman — the Artist, most likely — was sitting on a stool in front of a painting on an easel. It was also only an assumption that he was another Roman, because he absolutely did not look it, clad in a white hoodie covered in paint splotches and red sweatpants, hood pulled up and covering his hair. The only thing that indicated his Roman status was the golden waves adorning his sleeves, the same as the waves on Roman’s crest. 

He held a large painting palette in his right hand and a brush in his left, dabbing oil paint against the half-finished canvas in front of him. Another work in progress, it seemed. 

The clutter and the painting didn’t bother the Child. He closed the door behind himself, being careful to not slam it, and cleared his throat. 

The other Roman didn’t move nor speak. Just kept painting, dabbing his brush on the palette and swiping it along the canvas. The painting was unfinished, but it looked so far like an impressionist piece, Logan thought. 

The Child coughed again, yet the other Roman didn’t flinch.

“I’m back, Arty,” he said.

“I heard you,” came the impatient reply, snappy and fast, the Artist not turning to speak to them, “Who’s with you?”

“Dad. And Teach. Dragon was mean today,” the Child was playing with the hem of his shirt

“Mhm.”

“It’s curfew. They couldn’t go back to their houses.”

“Mhm.”

“So they’re gonna sleep here. I’ll keep them in my room.”

“Mhm.”

The Child took Logan and Patton’s hands into his own again and pulled them toward the stairs. “Good luck with your painting,” his voice teetered off into silence as the Artist failed to turn again. 

Patton opened his mouth, but the Child squeezed his hand and shook his head. Logan took a little more tugging, as he stood by the bottom of the stairs, trying to look at all the paintings. Some were paintings — oil impressionist, pop art, surrealism and cubism, even some De Stijl paintings — some were simple figure drawings on lightly-crumpled paper, some even….was that a painting of Virgil? 

The Child tugged harder and Logan stumbled after him. 

They made it to the top of the stairs. The Child let go of Patton and opened the door, ushering both of them in before slamming the door shut behind himself. 

This was probably the most regular room they’d seen so far in the Imagination. A small twin bed sat in the corner, with a big canopy and fairy lights overtop. There were streamers and drawings and posters hanging all around the walls, even some stickers and some drawings done directly onto the wall. A wardrobe sat in the corner farthest from the bed, a desk and vanity mirror besides that, and five bean bags were arranged in a circle around a circle rug in the middle of the room. 

There was an air of magic around the room, too. The fairy lights bobbed up and down slowly, despite being hung on wires, and the clouds painted onto the ceiling seemed to move. The ceiling was fairly low, too; Patton reached up, eyes stuck on a cloud in the shape of a heart, and found that he could actually touch them. The heart swirled around his hand, glowing light blue before dissipating entirely.

“Sorry about him,” Patton and Logan looked down at the Child — he’d gone to the wardrobe and was taking off his cloak, revealing a plain white shirt with the crest’s sun emblazoned across his back. “Artist’s, uh, not a people person.”

“So we saw. His work, however….it’s breathtaking,” Logan stepped aside as Patton went for one of the beanbags, “I didn’t realize Roman was that much of an artist.”

The Child snorted. He sat down on one of the other beanbags and started untying his shoes, chubby fingers unlacing them down a few notches. “Yeah, well. You never seemed interested. No one was. Arty doesn’t like leaving his art all alone, so ever since we formed he’s been in here with it.”

“Yeah, you said somethin’ like that.” Patton crossed his legs on the bean bag, leaning forward on his elbows toward the Child. “The Playwright also said something about everyone having different thoughts on what’s best for Roman.”

“Playwright!” the Child tossed his shoes into the corner behind the door and laid back in the bean bag, spread out with his arms open. “Oh my gosh, I haven’t seen him in a while, is he okay?”

Logan let his shoulders loosen and slouch. It….did feel good to unwind, after the events of the day. Maybe the adrenaline and shock were wearing off finally. He sat down on another bean bag, bending his knees as though he were in a normal chair. “Yes, he is fine. He is, ah, backstage, as he called it.”

“Yeah, I thought so. Artist doesn’t like Playwright at all,” Logan and Patton shared another confused glance at that, “Thief says it’s ‘cause he doesn’t like mister Logic, but I think he doesn’t like you ‘cause he doesn’t like Playwright.”

“Why doesn’t he like the Playwright? That seems counterintuitive, to not like yourself,” As soon as the words left Logan’s mouth, he realized how hypocritical it sounded. And how obvious the explanation was.

Patton seemed to notice as well, because he grimaced, putting a hand on top of Logan’s knee. The Child, however, just shrugged. “Well, I don’t like all of me, you know? I wanted to figure out what parts of me I could live without, but every part of me has an opinion about what part’s important.”

“I?” Logan asked, softer now.

The Child nodded. “Roman. I,” he made a gesture up at the air, and it reminded Patton a little of the hand flip Roman typically did when rising. “I’m Roman but I’m not  _ Roman _ .”

“How does that work, kiddo?” Patton coaxed him.

“It’s like….” he trailed off, resting his hand on his chin as he thought. After a few quiet moments, he continued.

“Okay,” The Child sat up and patted his own chest. “Me. I’m the Child. AND I’m Roman. I’m all….”

He flopped backward again onto the bean bag, making vague gestures with his hands as he wrestled to find the words, only to find that there were none. No words truly. 

The Child let his hands fall onto his stomach with a groan, staring upwards. Patton and Logan shared a nervous glance. It was clear something was bothering the Child, something integral to this Hunger Games of Romans situation. 

“Take your time, kiddo,” Patton tried to comfort him, but his words seemed to fall on deaf ears.

The Child was just looking up at the sky ceiling. After another few seconds, he heaved a sigh.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The sky?” Logan and Patton both looked up as well.

“With all the clouds that look like pretty things. And even if they don’t look like things, they look soft and fluffy and wonderful. And then, when there aren’t clouds, it’s the most beautiful shade of blue or a dazzling red, like how a nice summer night makes you feel?” The ceiling had been full of fluffy white clouds, meandering across the painted blue expanse, but as soon as the Child mentioned “dazzling red” the clouds began to glow pink as the ceiling’s paint color changed to red. He clapped.

“Or, or! Even better, sometimes, when it’s really, really late, and there are stars out? And every star is like a gem on a glittering cloak that the world’s putting on you?” the ceiling changed once more, painted black as the clouds vanished. One by one, twinkling stars seemed to glow from nothing against the ceiling backdrop. In actual constellations, no less.

“It’s all so….” the Child exhaled, “Beautiful.”

Silence followed. All three of them were now laying on the bean bags, looking up at the twinkling stars and the occasional barely visible line that connected them. They just starred, Logan and Patton unsure of how to break the silence, until the Child continued himself.

“That’s what I want Roman to remember,” Patton looked at the Child, who was watching the stars. He spoke with a strong determination, voice set. “That’s what I want to see. The beauty.”

He faltered, closing his open mouth and gritting his teeth. Logan looked away from the sky now, too, and watched the Child as he closed his eyes. Wiser than he seemed. “But that makes me really childish, doesn’t it? If we just see the beauty, then that means we’re ignoring all the bad stuff. And if we’re too childish, we don’t get taken seriously, and we really need to be taken seriously. I mean….”

The Child glanced over at Patton, and he could have sworn that the Child had tears in his eyes. Oh, he hoped he wasn’t crying. Patton reached out, offering his hand to maybe comfort him, but the Child just shrugged, unwilling to look at him anymore.

“We see how you get treated, Dad,” Patton’s brow furrowed in confusion, hand retracting a little, as though the Child’s words hurt. “No one takes you serious and you always have to prove yourself. We don’t take you serious, either, a lot of the time. ‘Cause if you’re childish, then you don’t deserve to be taken seriously. That’s what Roman tells himself. Tells me. But it’s wrong.”

Now the silence was just awkward. Patton lowered his hand into his lap as the Child looked back up at the sky. There was no denying now, now that the Child’s quiet breathing hitched and stuttered, that he was crying. 

“It has to be wrong,” he whispered between gasps. 

Slowly, the Child pulled his hands up to his face, rubbing his eyes and sniffing into his hands. Patton was going to start crying himself, watching the Child cry. He turned to Logan with a bitten lip. He knew, deep down, that the others didn’t always take his opinion seriously. Heck, it was a running theme! Patton the childish, the inner child, the baby. But Jesus, that was point blank. 

“You’re correct, Roman. I don’t always understand you both, but the things I don’t understand aren’t…they aren’t unimportant. Occasional immaturity does not equal insignificant. We….” Logan faltered and looked up at Patton, who was staring at him now, tears dotting his eyes. 

They really did walk on him, didn’t they? Logan considered the times he had helped elevate Patton’s concerns, and the situations in which Patton’s concerns were elevated. No one took the puppet suggestion seriously, until it was proven successful, and Thomas himself had to step in to get them to even consider it as an option. Along with that, Deceit was able to mimic Patton by, what? Literally saying he was a fan of cartoons and was silly? It was so easy to character Patton into a caricature of immature glee that he, Roman, and Virgil barely noticed.

That was the insult, wasn’t it. Childish. Not to be taken seriously. Silly and immature. Was that what he thought of Patton?

Patton wiped his tears and looked away. “I….guess that’s true. But hey! That’s what comes with being Thomas’ inner child, isn’t it?” there he went, voice heightening in pitch as he tried to make it sound as though he weren’t so upset with Logan’s silence and the Child’s assessment. “Your dorky ol’ Dad can be a lil’ goofball a lot of the time.”

“Your goofball-ness is welcome, often appreciated. We….do have a lot to learn, about having fun and seeing things anew.”

Patton looked over at Logan, who was watching him with determination. The Child, too, was watching Logan with both eyebrows raised, having grabbed a pillow from his side to press his face into. His eyes were two large spotlights.

“I do not understand the Imagination. I cannot claim to. But there IS immense beauty in this world you’ve created, and I see that it would be a waste to focus on making logical sense of it rather than take in the world around as a work of art. It might be childish, but sometimes….a little childishness is what we need to maintain a healthy lifestyle and a healthy headspace. Your input is appreciated.”

If Roman was having these sorts of concerns, about being perceived as childish or not, then Logan knew it was likely Patton had similar concerns. He chided himself mentally for letting this self-consciousness fester but a direct approach was always the most efficient. 

And it was all worth it to see Patton smile and remove his glasses, wiping the tears from his downcast eyes.

“Thank you for sharing your concerns with us, kiddo,” the Child smiled at the nickname and rubbed the back of his neck, turning away for a bit. Patton smiled at him, then at Logan, beaming like the sun. “Logan put it real well.”

Logan fixed his glasses, pleased with himself, and the Child patted his arm. “Thank you, Logan,” he said.

They sat in silence, eyes flicking with new brief understanding between each other, until there was banging from below the floor. Patton squeaked and Logan stiffened, but the Child just groaned into his pillow. 

“WHAT’RE YOU TALKING ABOUT UP THERE?!” the Artist’s voice boomed from below.

“JUST TALKIN’ ABOUT THE OTHER SIDES WITH TEACH,” the Child shouted back, voice muffled by the pillow. 

“WELL, SHUT UP ‘BOUT THEM! THE DRAGON BITCH’LL HEAR YOU!”

“YOU CAN’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!”

“YOU BRATTY LITTLE—DON’T MAKE ME COME UP THERE!”

The Child leaned his back, groaning loud and angrily. “FINE! SORRY!”

Logan and Patton exchanged worried glances. Had the Artist heard that whole conversation? They looked to the Child for any thoughts or input, but he just shook his head. 

“He won’t come upstairs. Ugh, I was doing real good at not saying your names,” he rubbed his face, rubbing the tears into his skin to hide them, “It’s–It’s like the taboo system. Dragon, he put a curse on your names so all of us can hear it when someone says them. The others aren’t really scared of that, they–they….Artist doesn’t want anyone finding this house. He heard me say your name, mister Logic.”

Before either of the adults could respond, however, there was another crash from downstairs. The Child frowned and climbed off the bean bag, kneeling on the ground with an ear pressed to the rug. 

“What—” Patton was cut off by the Child shushing him harshly. 

They weren’t confused for long, though, as the voices grew more raised and angry. 

“—TOLD YOU—FUCK OUT!” they heard the Artist shout. 

“I WILL ONCE YOU STOP TALKING SHIT ABOUT THE OTHERS! THEY’RE IN OUR REALM NOW, THEY COULD HEAR YOU!”

Patton raised his eyebrows. He looked at Logan, who was frowning at nothing. When he noticed Patton, Logan mouthed “Playwright.” He didn’t seem like the type to be so….explosive.

“WELL TOUGH, PLAYWRONG. I DONT GIVE A FUCK IF THEY HEAR ME! I JUST DON’T WANT DRAGON SHOWING UP, THOSE UNGRATEFUL CRITICAL ASSHOLES—”

“THEY’RE MUCH MORE THAN THAT, THEY’RE BETTER THAN ALL OF US COMBINED, YOU STARVING STEREOTYPE—”

The Child stood up slowly, stepping carefully on the rug and sliding his feet along the wooden floor. He slid all the way to the door. As slow as he could, he clicked the lock in place, and let out a breath. The yelling died down immediately to a whisper, as though locking the door disconnected the room from the whole house.

“That’ll keep them out. They’re probably not gonna come up here, can’t get into my room now, but if they find you then we’re all fucked,” he mumbled.

“Language,” Patton mumbled, and the Child giggled at him. “No swear words when there’re children present, you know that!”

“Yeah, yeah—” the Child cut himself off with a yawn, shoulders hiking up slowly.

He shuffled back to the bean bags and collapsed into the one he’d been sitting in. He curled into a ball, huffing a small sigh. Patton yawned, too, and smacked his lips. Logan had to stifle a yawn himself. They were contagious. 

It  _ had _ been a long day. They were due for a sleep, especially after the arduous experiences they’d had throughout the day.

“Y’know, I didn’t think the Playwright’d let y’all in,” the Child’s words jumbled over each other, and he covered his mouth as he yawned again.

“What makes you say that?” Logan pressed. 

Despite the tiredness, he knew there was something wrong with his initial read of the Playwright, and this situation didn’t leave space for those kinds of errors. The Child shrugged. “I….from what I know, he’s more….he likes things done his way. He really wants all of you approve of him. Mostly mister Logic, but all of you. And he really, really, really doesn’t like Princey. Him an’ Dragon an’—an’—” the Child yawned again, mumbling the rest of his sentence incoherently, but Logan didn’t process that.

There was another mention of this “Dragon” character. Logan rubbed his cheek, arms crossed on his knees as he ran the new information through his mind. The Playwright was volatile — he scoffed quietly, of COURSE Roman, with his boisterousness and exuberance, wouldn’t be able to contain his energetic nature into something reserved and quiet. He had his quiet moments, but he couldn’t maintain stoicism forever. They would have to assess him again, it seemed.

“I thought….” Patton whispered, and Logan looked up at him. 

Patton’s eyes were downcast at the ground, brow furrowed in anguish. He’d thought they’d gotten at least one part of Roman, one bit to understand that they were accepted. That Roman was LOVED, damnit, because that’s what it was! He was loved, Roman was loved, and by God it felt like he’d failed if one of his friends doubted that so much that he couldn’t believe that.

“I’m gonna sleep. Just right here. Y’all can take the bed if y’all want,” the Child’s voice slurred together, halfway asleep already and cutting into both adults’ trains of thought.

Patton sighed. He slowly switched into Dad Mode as he pushed himself up and rolled his shoulders. “Nope. You’re a growing boy, kiddo, you’re goin’ in the bed.”

He stooped down and picked the Child up, chuckling quietly as he groaned in dramatic despair. Still, the Child wrapped his arms around Patton’s neck lazily, snuggling against him once more. Logan crossed his legs on the bean bag and watched as Patton sat on the bed, rubbing the Child’s back, and tried to pry him off. 

“You need to get in bed, kiddo,” Patton whispered gently, “You’ve gotta sleep. A prince needs his beauty sleep, right?” 

The Child giggled. “I’m not a–a–a,” he yawned again, “A prince! I’m a child!”

“But you’re gonna grow up to be one! You’re gonna grow up to be a great prince, ruling over all the Imagination,” Patton was whisper shouting, putting on a grandiose voice full of gusto.

He mimicked blowing a trumpet with one hand and the Child laughed, patting Patton’s hand down.

“Nuh uh!” he hummed between tired giggles.

Logan stood up behind Patton and gently took the Child’s hands. The Child looked up at him, squeezing Logan’s hands sleepily and giggling. 

“You will be a valiant prince,” he lifted the Child’s hands away from Patton, and he took the cue to start tucking the Child into bed, “You will be a prince, lion-hearted and loved. But tonight, you must sleep.”

The Child squeezed his left hand, then his right, and laid down in the bed he’d been placed in. He looked so comforted as Patton pulled the blanket up higher around his face, big brown eyes questioning as he looked up at Logan from beneath the edge of the blanket.

“Will they listen to me?” his voice was thick as he teetered between unconsciousness and lucidity, “Will–Will they care, when I’m a prince?”

Logan nodded at him, and Patton nodded too. They were both sure, sure as the sky is blue. “Yes,” Patton whispered, “Everyone will hear you. And you’ll live happily ever after, my Prince.”

The Child giggled quietly. Slowly, he snuggled into the bed, and his hold on Logan’s hands relinquished, now gripping the blanket as he curled into a ball. Within mere seconds, he was snoring softly.

Patton stepped back and stretched. He looked up at Logan, who was removing his glasses in preparation for sleep.

“Wanna sleep on the floor?” Patton asked, “Or should we stack the beanbags in a square and use those as a bed?”

Logan considered the bean bags for a moment, actually, before deciding the morning back pain wouldn’t be worth it. “I think we can suffer the floor for a night,” he said, taking his coat off and spreading it out on the ground.

Patton followed suit, throwing his cat cloak down and spreading it out like a bed mat. They both slowly climbed to the ground beside each other, fitting themselves into the space that was to be their sleeping mat, grabbing some of the pillows and stuffed animals strewn about. At least the carpet was soft, adding extra padding. They both laid down, heads resting on some of the Child’s pillows, staring up at the stars on the ceiling.

Though they were both tired, Patton wanted to clear one thing up before letting himself drift off.

“....Lo,” Patton asked, voice soft. “Lo, are you awake?”

Logan sniffed. He was actually partway asleep already. “Yes, Pa—er. Patt.”

Patton giggled. It wasn’t always that he got to hear Logan call him by a nickname. He sobered up fast, though. “Did you mean what you said? About…about appreciating the childish things.”

Ah. Logan opened an eye. Patton smiled sheepishly at him. 

He still had his glasses on. Logan turned to his side, facing Patton, reaching a hand out and taking his glasses off carefully. He slowly folded them and set them aside on the ground, with his.

“Of course I did. You provide important opinions and insight, often noticing details I….overlook,” Logan rested his hand on Patton’s shoulder, “You are appreciated.”

Patton beamed with a wobbly lip, more tears threatening to spill over. He slowly took Logan’s hand and pressed it to his lips. Not in a kiss, per se, but more to hold him close. To show that he was so thankful, so grateful for this acknowledgement. Plus, he was afraid that the tears would spill if he opened his mouth.

Logan didn’t seem to mind, though his face did turn a brighter shade of crimson, just barely visible in the starlight. 

After a few seconds, Patton regained his stability. “Thanks,” he whispered. “We...we’re gonna get Roman back.”

Logan nodded, discombobulated. Patton’s breath on the back of his hand was comfortingly warm. There was that feeling in his chest. What  _ was _ that?

He let go of Logan’s hand and rolled back onto his back, letting out a sign of contentedness. Their little prince was fast asleep and the next day would bring more trials. They had to find Virgil and Deceit and hopefully the Roman who’d been on the roof. They had to talk to the Artist. They had to confront the Playwright. They had to find the OTHERS and talk to THEM.

And Patton knew they’d be able to face it all head-on. He knew it in his heart. “Goodnight, Lo’. I love you.”

Logan exhaled beside him. Perhaps….things would be okay. He looked over at Patton, whose eyes were already closed, legs crossed and hands interlaced on his chest in a peaceful manner. 

There was that feeling again. The data points — he was too tired to be thinking coherently, look at him, applying statistics knowledge to emotions of all things — indicated that he felt warm and fluttery near his lungs whenever he considered the other Sides. It felt as though his lungs were clenching, breathing constricting and carbon dioxide exhalation warming. That couldn’t be literal, though, or else he’d be ill. On this particular adventure, in this particular day, it’d happened a few times. 

Perhaps he was just tired. It had been a long day, all of this just in one day. Logan would consider this issue more in the morning. However, he would indulge in the working hypothesis just once, whilst muddled in this warm-chested comforting confusion. “....I love you, too, Patt. Sleep well.”

It may have been a trick of the light or his mind, but Logan thought, just before he closed his eyes, that he’d seen Patton smile at him. 


	8. he's a tramp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Sympathetic Deceit, panic, panic attack!!, scarring/scars, past fights, loneliness, isolation, self-hatred/self-deprecation, self-isolation, swearing/cursing, curses, death threats, thoughts of ducking out, public torture (implied), argument (no yelling but Hardcore Debates) EDIT: food mention!!!
> 
> PLEASE READ ALL THE WARNINGS!!! — also if i’ve missed any warnings, please please please let me know!!! this chapter’s a doozy and also super long , and i simply don’t know everything that could be construed into something that might upset someone, so please let me know if you think there’s something i’ve missed so i can update this chapter and make sure it’s tagged in future chapters! or if i've worded any of them wrong
> 
> that being said, enjoy!! <3 <3 <3 <3

Virgil didn’t think the first quest he’d have through Roman’s Imagination would involve trudging through a sewer line. 

He pulled his hood tighter around his face, trying to block out the scent but leaving a hole just barely wide enough to see Deceit and the Thief walking in front of him, leading every step with the ball of his foot and basically tip-toeing through the cobblestone tunnel. The Thief had led him and Deceit around some roads too fast to follow, instructed them to put their hoods up and hide as much of their faces as they could until they breached the town’s defense wall, and to do that, they’d have to follow one of the paths beneath one of the two river branches. Underground and not seen. They were on the run from the guards, after all; Virgil agreed that getting caught would throw a wrench in absolutely everything. 

Deceit was a little more careless. Virgil kinda wanted to kick him for it, actually. For someone so concerned about what was best for Thomas the real person, Deceit seemed very nonchalant about the whole “Roman, Creativity, might be gone forever” situation. 

Roman was NOT gone forever. 

Holy shit, Roman was gone.

Virgil squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled, covering his mouth with his hood. The realization was coming in waves, slapping him with the ice cold knowledge that they’d demoralized Roman so much he’d basically ducked out. He’d done more than ducked out. He was fucking dead.

Calm down time, he could hear Patton’s voice in the back of his head start counting one, two, three, four. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. 

“Virgil. Are you coming?” Deceit said. 

Virgil looked up to see Deceit and the Thief both stopped and standing a few paces in front of him, waiting. While Deceit just watched with his mouth pressed in a line, the Thief looked more concerned.

Was that concern? Virgil couldn’t tell. He just nodded, not removing the hood from his mouth or taking any further steps forward, but it seemed that his approval was enough to placate the both of them. 

The Thief turned back around, continuing to lead. “Sorry. I know it’s dismal down here, but this’ the safest passage out of the city,” his fingers trailed along the right wall, making a soft scraping sound as the leather rubbed against the stone. “We’re almost out.”

Deceit was trailing right behind the Thief, close enough that his cloak’s flapping was gently hitting his shins. It seemed best to stick close to their guide, especially in as confusing a situation as this one. Plus he may be able to learn some more about the Pandora’s box that they’d opened when interrupting this death fight nonsense. He actually kept trying to grab the Thief’s hand, something to guide (not comfort), but he kept missing. Or the Thief was dodging. But no, no way would he be doing that. 

They turned another corner and the Thief held up a hand, stopping Deceit and Virgil behind himself. Neither of them opened their mouths, but he still shushed quietly and turned to face the wall. It looked like dirt and stone like all the rest of the walls. The Thief said something, not to either of them but himself. Deceit leaned forward, hand outstretched, but Virgil swatted it away.

He also ignored the glare Deceit shot him. “What?” Deceit taunted quietly, “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Fuckin’ liar,” Virgil grumbled into his hood, muffled enough that neither of the others could hear what he said. 

Deceit heard that he said something, though, and smirked. It was always rewarding to watch Virgil squirm, especially since…. 

His smirk fell and was replaced with a sigh. The path to hell was paved in good intentions, after all.

The Thief stepped back, causing Virgil and Deceit to jump. They hadn’t noticed that he’d set a few fires — there were a few wicks embedded in the stone — and the glittering golden flames formed a circle in the wall. In the circle, where there used to be wall, was a hole leading to the outside world. Virgil could definitely see grass out there.

He followed the Thief as he stepped through the opening and out into the grass. “C’mon. And stop arguing, I can hear your eyebrow muscles moving,” he said. 

Both Deceit and Virgil stopped, casting wary glances at each other before following again. The Thief didn’t look at them at least, but that just made it even more confusing as to how he knew they’d been shooting each other death glares for the whole sewer trip. 

Ah, well. Nothing in this realm made much sense, anyhow. Virgil looked up, squinting at their surroundings. They were definitely out of the city. Behind them was the looming city wall, definitely over four stories tall and seemingly impenetrable. The hole they’d exited from was closed, small wisps of smoke rising from where the Thief had extinguished the spell’s flames. 

And speaking of which, apparently there was a Roman who was a witch or something. Logan was right about the magic in this world, then. That was another thing he’d have to be wary about. Are you ever so stressed that you’re calm? Oh, worm. 

Virgil snorted to himself and rubbed his face. The memes, they’d ruin him one day.

Deceit cast him a curious look, but disregarded it before Virgil noticed. They didn’t have the time nor expendable energy for animosity. Not here, and not with the stakes so high. He was trying his best to not antagonize Virgil — okay, but come on, it was just so easy!

To their left was the river, though it was more like a stream as it cut through a grate in the wall and along the grassy expanse towards the forest. The Thief seemed to be following it, humming a tune as he pushed around reeds and tall grass. To his credit, the Thief seemed less stressed now that they were out of the city; he was swaying, even, to the song he was humming. 

“Thief,” he stopped humming when Deceit interrupted him, “You live in the tree, in the forest, correct?” 

“I do. You’ve seen it?” the Thief looked over his shoulder at Deceit quickly.

“Yes. When we arrived in this world, we were in a patch of grass in the forest. Your tree was our first checkpoint.”

Deceit moved the reeds in front of him away with his hands. Crickets were chirping out here, the water glittering golden as the sun lowered behind them. Sunset would be happening soon. 

It seemed everything shone gold, here.

“Like a video game?” the Thief asked, humor laced through his voice.

Deceit sighed. “That was Virgil’s idea.”

“Hey—!”

“It was a good one,” the Thief cut him off, waving a hand at Deceit without looking at him. “The concept of checkpoints isn’t just a video game thing. Any story has constants, things that’re always there to help the reader place themselves into the story and understand how things flow. My tree’s always been that, so we’ve always got somewhere we’re…,” he trailed off, then chuckled. “Rooted to.”

“Booo,” Deceit groaned, ignoring Virgil’s quiet snickering, “Patton would approve.”

The Thief winced. He stopped walking — they were halfway to the forest, following the river — and pointed two red fingers at them both. “I should warn you, watch out whose names you say. You never know who’s listening.”

Deceit shot a panicked and confused look right at the Thief’s back. He turned to Virgil and found his expression mirrored on the anxious side’s face, both not liking the implications of that statement.

They turned back to the Thief, who had just turned around and continued walking. Virgil cleared his throat first.

“What do you mean by that….?” 

“There’s a curse on your guys’ names. Logan, Patton, Virgil, Deceit,” the Thief’s voice was light, airy, as though he didn’t particularly care. “If you say it, everyone hears it, knows where it was said and who said it. I don’t really care but, well. I would prefer not having too many uninvited guests tonight.”

“O….kay.” Deceit cleared his throat and shook out his hands, a little more frustrated now with that knowledge. He would have to ask more about that later — there were so many things they didn’t know about, that they needed to approach, but he couldn’t keep dropping things for others. “But….more on the tree. How old is it?”

Make the Thief finish a train of thought. Virgil raised an eyebrow at Deceit, who nodded. That was their gameplan. Milk him for information, on anything, because at this point, anything was helpful.

He clapped happily, Deceit noted, walking with a slight pep in his step as his thoughts were redirected toward his tree. “It was formed before this challenge. Roman made it, actually, back when Thomas was a kid and wanted a treehouse he could escape into. When….we feel like we want to be alone, it’s where we go, so it was fitting that I’d move into it once this challenge started.”

Virgil sped up a little, to catch up enough to walk inline with Deceit. No point in bringing up the rear the farther they got from the city. “You see this whole situation as a challenge? Like, the battle royale situation.”

The Thief waved a hand as the incline changed, entering the forest. “Something like that, yeah. Mostly we’re all fighting about what we think is best for Roman.”

Deceit and Virgil shared a look. They remembered the Playwright’s words, about maintaining order. It was easy, in the euphoria of finding Roman, to forget that all of these forms had ulterior motives. 

Briefly, Deceit considered what the Playwright’s ulterior motive was. He hadn’t mentioned having one, but it was in his nature to not trust that sort of silence.

“What do YOU think is best?” Virgil asked as they both turned back to the Thief.

He didn’t turn to look at them, holding out a hand as a small bluejay — where the fuck did the bird come from?! — landed on his hand. The Thief whistled quietly at it, and it chirped back, and flew away. 

They could see a sliver of his face, drawn up in a small smile, expression strained even as they couldn’t see it.

“....Stay in the Imagination. For forever.”

There was a pause. 

Deceit was watching the back of the Thief’s head, eyebrow raised and glare frozen. That was a twist. No, no it wasn’t. He should have seen this coming — the others’ letting him stay locked in his room would definitely send the message that they didn’t care if he came out. Of course.

He glanced at Virgil, only to find the anxious side glaring absolute daggers at the Thief’s head. He wanted to duck out (quack). Son of a bitch, there was a part of Roman that wanted to duck out (quack).

Virgil was gonna scream. 

Deceit made a gesture, and Virgil’s hand clamped over his mouth. He shot daggers at Deceit, who did his best to only focus on the Thief.

“That doesn’t sound healthy,” Deceit said, voice quiet.

“I don’t remember asking your opinion, little white lie,” the Thief grunted as he climbed over a particularly thick root. 

He shot Deceit a quick glare before disappearing around it. His hand stuck out and motioned them both to follow. Virgil punched Deceit’s arm with his other hand and Deceit sighed, letting up so Virgil could speak.

“That wouldn’t benefit anyone,” Virgil hissed, dread laced through his voice as he held back as much of his panic as he could. He and Deceit both cringed when his Tempest Tongue slipped out, though.

They climbed over the root, Virgil first and giving Deceit a sharp kick in the side as he did so. Deceit hissed, and slapped Virgil’s back. 

The Thief watched them both with a glare as they appeared over the root.

virgil could definitively say that the Thief was one of the parts of Roman that he didn’t like. He was squirrely, too ready to judge and too eager to cut ties, and Virgil didn’t see what a center-stage hog like Roman would gain from losing his audience. It was counterintuitive. 

But maybe it was tied to ducking out. Who fucking knows. 

The Thief’s expression seemed to let up, but he looked away again, continuing up the hill. “You, too, Dark Knight.”

They followed for while in silence, until Deceit asked, voice softer, “And what if you’re wrong?”

Now the Thief stopped. His shoulders were stiff, as though he had half a mind to tell them to shut up, or even to turn them back. Virgil opened his mouth, but Deceit held out a hand, shaking his head. Let him think.

Eventually, he slumped, tilting his head back and exhaling. “That’s the point of breaking Roman apart,” his voice was strained, “We need to piece him back together into something more, ah….I’m bad at wording, but something more indestructible.” 

That was what he had suspected. Deceit sighed, lowering his arm and approaching the Thief’s back. Carefully, he rested his hand on his shoulder, giving him one tug to turn around and ignoring how stiff the Thief turned. The forest around them was darkening, and red light from the setting sun streamed in around them. 

A harsh breeze swept through the opening. Virgil held his cloak tight around himself and looked around. The fear of bears was definitely more real now. But Deceit was unfazed. He held the Thief’s arm tight, even though it was limp in his grip. 

He wasn’t going to lose Roman over something so….well, for lack of a better word, trivial.

“No one’s perfect, Thief. Everyone’s got flaws and denying yours might result in,” Deceit paused, trying to phrase this without revealing his exact thoughts, “Unwanted consequences.”

The Thief’s eyes were cast down, at the ground. His entire body was rigid, as though Deceit’s hand had frozen him upon touch.

Had he always looked so defeated? Held a darkness in those eyes just as bright as the shine that comes when spinning a yarn or acting in a play? 

Deceit glanced at Virgil, then back at the Thief. How had they let this happen?

He shrugged Deceit’s hand off with a sharp shake, still refusing to look at him. “Yeah. It probably will. And, once you’re all out of here, you won’t have to deal with those flaws again.”

Deceit’s eyebrows shot up, hand curling into a fist at his side as he argued in the only way he could. The Thief didn’t care?! “It’ll hurt HIM, and it doesn’t matter who wins this stupid challenge. You understand that, right?”

“Yeah,” the Thief barked out a laugh, “I’ll take your word for it, Silver Tongue.”

He continued forward, not checking that they were following. 

Deceit’s hands were curled into tight fists at his sides, shaking slightly. That went against all of his work. All of his and the other Sides’ wor, too! Trying to save Roman, for him to snap back and self-destruct like this.

It was going to hurt THOMAS, didn’t Roman understand that? 

Did he WANT that?! 

He huffed, eyes fixed on a dandelion growing in the grass. It did make sense, it was a long time coming — of course, what an oversight on his part, to allow this isolation to extend for so long—

“Hey, breathe,” Virgil’s whisper brought him back to focus, “C’mon.”

Virgil’s hand wrapped around one of Deceit’s, coaxing his hand open with practised understanding and gripping tight. “Don’t panic. That’s my job.”

Deceit cast him a sidelong glare. 

Virgil shrugged, lips pursed, but a thin smile still present. He swung their arms up, then down again, and tugged him along. Deceit could feel him taking away some of his anxieties. There was no doubt that it was unhealthy, for Virgil to be roiling in everyone’s panic, but he couldn’t help but also being thankful as Virgil squeezed his hand in small pulses, tugging him along after the Thief.

After about a minute, he exhaled. 

“Thank you,” Deceit murmured, eyes downcast.

Virgil glanced at him. 

They could do this. Deceit swung their arms, and Virgil let out an exasperated sigh. 

He was definitely still high strung, but they could do this. 

But the Thief still wanted to leave.

Deceit pressed his lips together as he felt Virgil physically stiffen, the thought kicking him back into the reality. Which, in and of itself, was ironic, because the Imagination was super duper not reality. 

“Thief,” he didn’t turn towards them, “You want to duck out.”

It wasn’t a question. Virgil was glaring at the Thief’s back, eyes a little wide. 

Something was ringing in his ears. That’d been his fear — that’d been Virgil’s actual, personal fear for this whole endeavor. It’d just been confirmed.

The Thief stepped over a particularly large root, waving his right arm out towards the forest. “Of course. You’re necessary. Anxiety needs to have a seat at the table, yeah. You keep him out of trouble.”

He kicked a rock and hopped over another root. “We don’t. Uncreative people’re out in the world everywhere. Thomas can live without us, or with us muted.”

Oh my goodness gracious, Virgil was so glad Logan wasn’t there to hear that leap of logic. He couldn’t help the growing disgust on his face. 

Deceit squeezed his hand again, but the Thief continued. “Getting to spend all our time here, in a world of our own creation? Win. You all get to go about running Thomas without getting annoyed by us all the time? Win. It’s a double win. A win-win.”

Virgil stood up straight, finally letting go of Deceit’s hand to gesture angrily at the Thief’s back. He seethed, throwing his arms into the air and shaking his tightly-gripped fists at the sky. It was like talking to a brick wall! An incredibly stubborn and narrow-minded brick wall who didn’t seem to have any critical thinking!

Maybe he should call it quits. He squatted, wrapping his arms around his head to block out the sunlight, trying to calm down again. 

“Virgil.”

No, no, that wasn’t what he did. If Roman was stubborn, then Virgil was immovable, and he was gonna get his idiot back. 

A hand rested on his shoulder, pulling him upward. Virgil swatted away at it, growling quietly into his own arms. 

“Virgil, get up,” Deceit’s voice was barely audible over the blood pounding in his ears, “Or he’s gonna walk away.”

He nodded, exhaling into the ball he was curled into. 

Let go. Let go of the damn worries. 

“Virgil. Listen to my voice. Perhaps we cannot convince him, not alone and not tonight, but we can at least stay with him. Give him options.”

He’d trained himself to not listen to Deceit, who’d lied and manipulated his way around Thomas’ head. But, just this once….

Virgil nodded again and stood upright slowly, knees creaking and popping. They could do this. 

Deceit patted his shoulder and motioned forward. The Thief was already a few yards ahead, but not out of sight just yet. 

They both hurried after him. 

Until he stopped. 

The Thief’s shoulders slumped in relief as he finally spotted his tree in the distance. His pace quickened, jogging himself across the few meters between where he stood and the tree, and was followed by the other two Sides. Once they reached the tree, the Thief placed a hand against its side, running it along the bark slowly. As though greeting a friend. 

“Welcome home,” he hummed, smiling up at the canopy.

He searched in his pocket and pulling out a lighter — a regular modern lighter, wasn’t there supposed to be a medieval theme or something?! That was MULTIPLE ITEMS— Deceit squinted at it, opening his mouth in an offended fashion. He was going to say something about that, because it was pretty unfair that he got to have something so modern while everyone else was relegated to objects that were period accurate, but Virgil elbowed him in the side. 

The Thief, who was pressing the lighter to the black chalk, swirling the flame along the “door” opening, didn’t seem to notice. Virgil honestly just wanted to see what this magic was all about. Once he was done drawing the circle, he stepped back and held a hand out, pushing Deceit and Virgil back, too. “Open sesame,” he said with a grin.

All of the black chalk was alight, glowing gold from the flame. The Thief held a hand out for the drawn-on handle, and as soon as his hand got within an inch it glowed golden itself. The chalky text lit up red. He slowly turned the handle, now filling his hand with an amorphous golden light, and pushed the door open.

It swung easily, as though on invisible hinges.

The Thief smiled as the scent of home wafted over him. He took a deep breath, it’d been a long day, he was home, he was safe, and he turned to Deceit and Virgil.

Both of the other Sides were staring at the thick hole in the tree, mouths open slightly and eyes open much more. There wasn’t much to see inside the door, as there was a small staircase leading up to the actual living quarters, but the fact that the fairly solid tree opened was something. Neither of them had seen the magic in Roman’s kingdom, after all, and while they knew this was what happened….seeing it was a much different experience.

It was kind of humorous, actually. To think that he’d be bringing other Sides into his little sanctuary. 

It felt….nice. 

Shut up, shut up with that romantic bullshit. 

“Are you coming?” he asked, cocking his lips into a smirk as he waved them in.

Virgil snapped out of it first, surprisingly. He shook his head and nodded. “Yeah. ‘Course.” He elbowed Deceit, who jumped and nodded so vigorously his hat fell off. 

The Thief caught it, hand shooting out, and blinked at himself. And then he laughed. 

His demeanor had flipped almost at the exact moment they got to the tree. He wasn’t curled inwards, dancing around words and ideas. No, here he was, his laugh light, airy and carefree, something that he didn’t seem capable of prior. A few birds in the forest even chirped along. One cardinal landed on his head, whistling with him, and he didn’t seem to mind.

Virgil and Deceit shared a look, both equally blushing. This was a stark change and their glum guide was kinda cute.

The bird thing was textbook Disney prince too, like, how did he even —

“Alright,” the Thief brushed off the hat, lips quirked in a small smile, “Enough fucking around, c’mon.”

He put the hat back onto Deceit’s head, hands carding through Deceit’s hair as he did so. If the Thief noticed how much redder he got, then he didn’t let on, because he turned around as soon as the hat was on snug. 

Virgil noticed, though. He pressed the butt of his palm to his mouth, stifling a laugh as the snake spluttered silently at the Thief’s back. 

The Thief, still unaware — maybe unaware, maybe not? — went into the tree and climbed the stairs without waiting for them to follow. Virgil went first, then Deceit quickly, not wanting to be alone in the forest for long and not wanting to think about that incredibly gentle and not-at-all pleasing interaction. 

No sir. Not pleasing. Not what he absolutely wanted for the rest of his life. 

For once, he cursed the existence of gloves. How much softer would the Thief’s hands be without them? 

Deceit would die before acknowledging that he absolutely definitely didn’t not have a crush.

Virgil stepped up to the top landing, beside the Thief, and looked around. It was small, but cozy. Before them was a sitting area with a thick couch, identical to the one Thomas actually had in his living room but without the bend. In front of it was a wooden coffee table, beneath was a rug with circles, almost like the rings of a tree, Virgil thought. Atop the table was a vase of red roses in full bloom.

To the right was a small kitchen alcove, separated from the sitting area with a counter peninsula that had two toasters sitting on it. Two toasters. This Roman must like his bread, apparently. Floating around between the kitchen and sitting area were some candles, all lit and casting the room in a comforting warm glow. On the left was a stairwell, wooden and spiraling up in such a way that Virgil could only see the first few steps.

Besides the stairwell was a second door. As Deceit stepped up into the room, the Thief went to the second door and opened it. As soon as the door touched the back of the hall it opened to, it disappeared, leaving an uninhibited opening down to a curving hallway that seemed to wrap around the tree’s trunk. 

“Make yourselves at home,” the Thief said, waving his hand at the living room, “Do you want me to take your cloaks?”

Deceit put up his hand dismissively, turning in a circle and examining the room. 

Virgil also shook his head, holding his cloak around himself more. The Thief shrugged at him, taking off his own cloak. “Suit yourself.”

As he moved to hang it up, Virgil could see that the gloves went to the middle of his forearms, and his shirt seemed to be tucked into them. No part of him was exposed other than his collar, neck, and head. Interesting?

When Virgil turned back to Deceit, to maybe, you know, indicate that this Roman was taking some pages out of his book, he found that Deceit was wandering through the kitchen. He pointed to the two toasters, made a judgemental face at Virgil, and continued opening the cabinets and drawers. Virgil slumped a little. Figures.

He sighed, walking over to the couch and flopping onto it. Oh. It even smelt like Thomas’ couch. The tension left his shoulders as he rolled onto his side, pressing his face into the cushions and taking in a deep breath. It was dizzying, how quickly this lowered his heart rate. Virgil hadn’t realized how stressed he was with the fast-paced changes of this situation.

The hardwood floor creaking indicated that Deceit had moved from the kitchen to the hallway. His footsteps echoed away down the hall.

“You want some tea?” Virgil heard the Thief ask. 

He shook his head. He just wanted to lay down for now.

“Deceit? Tea?”

“I’m fine, thank you. May I go upstairs?”

“Intrusion doesn’t seem to be something you worry about, given how you went through my kitchen.”

Deceit didn’t grace that with a response, and Virgil heard his footsteps tapping up the stairs. 

Silence again. He hummed into the pillow and rolled over into his own cloak. He just needed some time.

“....Do you want something to eat?” the Thief tried and, again, Virgil shook his head.

“‘M good.”

“Mhm.”

The Thief went around the kitchen calmly. Virgil could hear it. His steps were soft, though not as quiet as Deceit’s. More just….comfortable. Not as heavy as Romans typically would be, either.

Virgil sat upright slowly, still hugging one of the cushions, and looked up. The Thief’s gloves were sitting on the counter, as was the Thief himself, cradling a mug in heavily-scarred hands. Virgil actually did a small double-take upon seeing them.

The Thief raised an eyebrow, questioning. 

“....Your hands’re fucked up,” Virgil stated.

He got a nod back. “Wow, I had no idea ‘bout that. Not like they’re on my body or anything.”

Virgil rolled his eyes. Roman always was a smartass. “No shit. Were….Roman’s hands aren’t like that, right?”

The Thief took a sip from the mug and did a so-so motion with his hand. “Yes and no. All my scars are definitely real. It’s not like we get out of every scrap with creatures, monsters, villains, the like without any damage. But Roman just sorta conjures flatter skin on top of it.”

Virgil frowned. There were a lot of questions he had for that, but he didn’t want to bombard him just this second. “That’s pretty weird, not gonna lie. So they normally heal into scars?” he gestured to the Thief, who nodded.

“Yeah, and it’s better to conjure up new skin than make you all worried.”

He must have recoiled, because the Thief laughed a little at him and took another sip. He wiped his mouth with the butt of his palm, shaking his head and speaking into his hand. “C’mon, you can’t tell me Patt wouldn’t flip if he saw this shit.”

Patton….very much would. All of them would, if Roman ever came in with that many scars. He was scared of what they’d say. 

Virgil was getting a clearer image of the Thief’s intentions every minute. Still, for now, he just shrugged and conceded. “You’re right, I guess.”

The Thief nodded, opening his mouth to continue, but Deceit’s footsteps hopping down the stairs interrupted him. The snake in question popped out around the spiral staircase’s bend, and Virgil saw that he’d removed his hat and cloak somewhere. He had a hand raised, too, to get their attention.

“Thief, question. Well. First, the top floor is beautiful — marvelous work,” the Thief raised his glass, but otherwise didn’t react. Must not be so susceptible to flattery, Deceit noted. “I saw a city. A modern looking one, behind the mountains.” 

“Oh, yeah.” 

The Thief took another sip of his drink and motioned for Deceit to sit by pulling out a stool from beneath the counter, with his leg. “That’s just another setting. We don’t always adhere to a medieval theme in here, but right now we’ve kinda fallen back on the Disney royalty theme because it’s something we’re familiar with. That, and we can all agree it’s marvelous.”

“I see,” Deceit sat beside Virgil, crossing his legs on the cushion. “So you’re never going to change the setting, though?”

Deceit thought it was a fair question, but the Thief let out a short laugh. “Are you kidding? We’d have to flip everything around! God, we’d need new names, too, and new hiding places. It’s all too much work.” 

He took another sip, then set his mug down. Deceit then noticed his hands, brow furrowing. He opened his mouth to bring it up, but Virgil elbowed him in the side and waved his hand. 

He’d explain later. Best not interrupt, because the Thief rubbed his mouth and continued. “I don’t even think we can. It’d need to be a unanimous decision, like a coherent thought, and we’re not really capable of that right now.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Virgil asked.

The Thief looked at them both. He seemed to be debating something. 

This Roman took his time with his words. That must mean he had a lot to hide, Deceit thought, or he didn’t want to expose certain ideas.

“For one. Dragon would kill us.”

Ah. “Dragon?” Deceit asked, “Care to elaborate?”

The Thief looked at his knees, then hopped off of the counter. “I’m going to make dinner,” he said, voice a little more airy, clearly trying to deflect from this conversation, “Spaghetti okay?”

“Tell us about Dragon,” Virgil pressed harder.

The Thief shot him a squinted look and relented as he set up the pot of water. “He’s another one of us, another Roman,” his voice held so much disdain. “He’s dramatic, loud, all that good stuff, but the biggest thing about him is that he really likes being right.”

“You don’t like him,” Deceit stated.

“Can’t say I’m a fan.”

He opened a cupboard and took out a box of pasta. He cleared his throat, glancing up at the two expectant faces before relenting again. 

“He’s a bit of a sadist. Like….he moved into the castle. He controls the guards. They all listen to ‘Roman,’” here, the Thief did air quotations, “But they aren’t sentient enough to notice that there are seven of us now, so they listen to the guy who took charge. Dragon.”

A villain part of Roman, apparently. One who would attack the others, if the way they found the Thief being chased by guards was any indication. Virgil stood up, going into the kitchen. “Where’re the plates?” he asked quietly, “‘M gonna set the table.”

The Thief nodded to one of the cabinets and Virgil opened it, taking out some plates. He set them down on the counter only for them to be picked up by Deceit and dispersed around the peninsula, where the three counter stools were.

“Dragon,” Deceit reminded, and the Thief sighed. 

“Before you guys showed up, he caught another one of us. Another Roman. And, God….” his voice trailed off. 

The pot was boiling. The Thief put the noodles in, taking a wooden spoon and easing them into the water. He seemed to roll something around in his head, lolling back and forth, before grimacing and continuing. “He….he did a lot of bad things to Damsel, the other Roman. Beat him publicly, in the village’s central square so all the characters got to see. So that we could all see. It was horrifying.” 

A chill swept through the glassless windows of the tree.

“That’s….” Virgil and Deceit spoke at the same time.

“Dark.”

“Awful.”

They shared a look before turning back to Thief, who was churning the noodles, eyes glued to the rising steam and boiling water. It was surprising that the steam didn’t put out any of the candles, actually. 

He looked forlorn, lost and defeated. “It was like a warning, to the rest of us. Don’t get caught, or else.”

Deceit picking up the conversation. “I didn’t realize there was a part of Roman willing to do….that. And for what?”

“For approval. And what can I say? He lives for validation, would kill for it, too. We all know you’re in here, so he’s definitely hunting you guys, maybe to gloat and probably hoping you all will tell him he did good,” the way Thief said it sounded almost too nonchalant, like it were forceful. 

He turned off the stove top’s heat — hang on, Deceit thought, a stove?! Well, fuck the theme-ing then. This was a neverending hell of inconsistencies — and pulled a strainer out from another cabinet. Slowly, the Thief strained out the water, talking all the while.

“He probably wants to….” his eyes flicked up at them, quick as a flash, and he let out a small exhale. “I dunno. He’s a bit of a dice roll. One second, he’s talking about how much he wants all of you to love him, brushing his hair in the mirror and painting his nails, just being harmless, and the other second he’s talkin’ about how much he wants to dismember you and throw your bodies into locked boxes in the river.”

Virgil and Deceit exchanged a look, one worried and one determined. They were safe, knew how to defend themselves, and had the means with which to defend themselves, but….

Virgil’s brow furrowed. Logan and Patton were out there somewhere. And there was a bit of Roman that seemed happy to kill literally anything. 

He looked up at Deceit, who was watching him with squinted eyes. Logan and Patton must be fine. They must be. 

What if they weren’t? Virgil squinted right back at him. They could be hurt.

No, they were fine.

The Thief cleared his throat, cutting through the tension like a knife and drawing both of their attentions back to him. He was heating up some sauce now, mixing in some herbs with what looked like a tomato-paste base, eyes shifting between Virgil and Deceit. 

The staredown lasted for a minute or two before he relented, exhaling and hitting his spoon on the side of the pan.

“Let’s….pause, for a hot sec. Dinner’s almost done and, after that, you both should sleep,” his voice carried like a whisper around the small kitchen.

Neither of them responded, and the Thief just kept cooking. He slowly poured the noodles into the sauce, mixing up a little before gesturing to the pasta. 

He couldn’t honestly expect them to just drop the conversation like that. Could he?

“We are going to have to confront Dragon,” Deceit raised an eyebrow at him, “You know that, right?”

The Thief shrugged. He picked up a plate, took out a pair of tongs, and began putting pasta on the plate. “Probably. I can’t help you there, though. I’ve just been setting off all the booby traps in the castle, so he gets stuck in them. And stealing his jewelry. He’s got a hoard of it.”

Like a dragon, Virgil thought. And with scales, probably, and claws. And wings. Maybe he breathed fire. 

He was frightened to all heck, but if they wanted Roman back, they’d have to….what. Talk with him? Probably talk with him. 

He looked at Deceit, who was looking at the pasta, and then he heard his own stomach growl. The Thief had sat down at one of the peninsula stools, pointedly ignoring them for his noodles.

Then, he giggled. The Thief covered his mouth with a hand, but they both could see that a broad smile was behind it. 

“What?” Deceit asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“The Child just said the Social Nerd-work’s name. That means Dad-ton Abbey and him’re safe at the Artist’s house,” he explained, waving a hand and swirling his pasta on a fork, “Wow.”

Wow indeed. A little bit of the tension in Virgil’s shoulders released. Patton and Logan were safe, fine, hidden away with another less-murderous Roman. That was some good news. 

….Well. Virgil sighed, more at ease now, and relented to the pasta. As he sat at the counter, Deceit went to make himself a plate. 

They ate in nearly absolute silence, none of them wanting to mention the lack of a plan and the looming fear of this villainous Roman who apparently wanted to kill them all.

Deceit finished first, and he ran his hand through his hair, smoothing it back. “We’re sleeping here, correct? I also don’t suppose you have a shower or something?”

Thief pointed down a hall. “We might have an aesthetic going, but I’d die without a whole bathroom set up. Down and to the left, there’re towels in the side closet,” he took a final bite and set his fork down, standing up

“Thank you,” Deceit said, shooting Virgil a small look as he ducked toward the bathroom. 

Deceit probably wanted him to ask more about the situation. Virgil tiredly continued to eat, but the pit that was opening his stomach was taking up more room than the pasta could fill. It was clear that the Thief — both of the Romans they’d interacted with, but right now, the Thief — trusted Virgil a lot more than Deceit. At least it showed a certain awareness on Roman’s part of Deceit’s trickery?

And it wasn’t like Virgil could help how upset he was by all this. It was a stressful situation and had a stressfully silent week before it. 

“I also,” Virgil looked back up at the Thief, who gestured to Virgil’s plate, “Forgot to thank you all. For coming after us. Honestly didn’t expect it.”

Virgil nodded and carefully stood up from his stool. The Thief smiled and took the plate, but his brows were pinched. He wanted an explanation, didn’t he? It felt like a weird thing to need to explain. It was obvious. Wasn’t it?

“We were worried,” it sounded lame aloud, but the Thief just nodded in response.

“Thanks,” he put the plates into the sink and pointed down the hall, too. “You should go check out a room, too. Maybe change into some pajamas or something more comfortable? There’re, uh, pajamas. I’m just going to do the dishes then head to bed myself.”

Again, Virgil nodded. He was at a loss for words, honestly, and that was all a lot of information to process. 

Take one thing at a time, though. That was what the Thief was suggesting, wasn’t it? “Sure thing,” he said, dashing away immediately. 

The hall was dark, long, and curved. There were candles floating along the walls, same as out in the living area, and there were doors on either side. One already had Deceit’s double-snake-head logo shining yellow. Besides that door was another, unmarked door, but Virgil could hear a shower coming from inside. 

He needed to get a room, first. Across from the bathroom was another unmarked door, probably a bedroom, and Virgil ducked into it, closing the door quickly. 

He immediately threw himself onto the bed and rubbed his face. That probably smudged his eyeliner. It was already smudged.

No, no, he didn’t have the time to care about that. Virgil sat upright and looked around. There was a small open-fronted wardrobe pressed against the wall, with some pairs of pants and some shirts hanging on the wall. Surprisingly, they all looked to be various combinations of purple, black, and grey. He stood up, against his desire to curl into a ball and sleep on that bed for all eternity, and checked out the clothing. Yep, everything was about his aesthetic, and some even had his logo on them. Neat.

There was the bed and there was a mirror on top of the wardrobe. Around the room were some floating candles, but none were lit, and there was a light switch by the door. Virgil squinted. How the fuck did that work?

He flicked the switch and they all turned on, lit by flames. Alright. That was cool. 

Virgil had to talk to the Thief. He couldn’t dance around it.

Or he could stay in here and admire how the wardrobe auto-filled with clothes that fit his style. Or he could admire the cool candle lights. Those would look sick in his room, actually. He should talk to the Thief about that, instead of literally anything else he actually had to talk to him about.

He just wanted Roman back, goddamnit. He wanted the Roman who would do outrageous things just to see Virgil smile. The one who would put on Black Cauldron for the millionth time, without complaint, when Virgil was having a bad day. He wanted the Roman who worked to improve himself and worked to include him, and didn’t shy away, and didn’t want to hide, and didn’t make him feel like he himself had overlooked something so disastrous as a crumbling self-image and gnawing concern that no one loved him. 

The guilt weighed heavy in his stomach. Yeah, guilt. Virgil had felt Roman’s anxieties growing, but did he bring it up? Well, okay, he did. But every time that he did, Roman had deflected it with a witty quip or incredibly stupid comment or even that dumb, dashing smile. And then Roman would catch that he was nervous about something. He would never guess that it was himself. 

Virgil could almost imagine what he’d do. Roman would take him by the hand into his room, always with the lights dimmer, more simplistic than was usual. He’d sit him in his squishy armchair, stand behind him, rub his shoulders and let him just vent. 

Or maybe Roman would lead him down into the kitchen, sing a merry tune and make Virgil some peppermint tea. Swirl around in the kitchen, making jokes or telling stories, on those days where Virgil didn’t want to talk.

Ever since they’d shifted to accepting him, Roman had done his best. Extra, frivolous, occasionally over-the-top, but his fucking best. Virgil owed his best right back.

Virgil had to get him back. He had to face the music.Virgil’s fists balled at his sides as he whispered to himself, “Fuck it,” and threw open his door. 

He hurried out of the hall and stopped in the entryway into the living area. The Thief was cradling another mug, sitting on a stool and staring at the flower vase sitting on the coffee table.

“Hey, Roman,” the Thief jumped and some liquid splashed out of his mug. Virgil winced. “Sorry, Thief?”

Virgil felt a little more guilty as the Thief sighed, rolling his shoulders and casting him a raised eyebrow. “Yeah, Virgil? You need anything?”

“Not really,” Virgil leaned on the wall as the Thief pulled out a roll of paper towels and tore some off. “I just wanted to say thanks. For keeping us safe. I don’t know what we would have done if you didn’t let us sleep over.”

The Thief pressed the towels to the spilt tea and matched eyes with Virgil. He gave him a reassuring albeit crooked smile, hair falling out of whatever order it’d been. It fluffed up around his face and, almost, looked like a crown. One of his hands reached up and ran through his hair, pushing it back into the messy but suave side-part Roman always had.

Hey, stop staring. Virgil blinked slowly and focused on the Thief’s words. “....probably safest place in the setting.”

He nodded, then shifted his weight, putting his hands in his pockets. Here goes. “Also, I don’t really understand why you want to be alone so badly. Like, I do, I get that feeling too sometimes, but….”

The Thief sighed, frustration laced through his breath, and Virgil added. “You know we’d miss you, Roman.”

That got him to falter. He stared at the countertop, then lifted the flower vase and cleaned beneath that. “I can’t say I wouldn’t miss you all, too,” he said. “I wish I wouldn’t. That’s more what I want. When we are all together, the best moments are so good. Nothing brings us more joy than seeing you smile and laugh at memes with us, or hearing Logan’s gasp when he reads something enticing, or watching Patton fuss around the kitchen. Heck, even Deceit’s dumb smirk makes us happy.”

Virgil could hear the “but” hanging in the air, especially once the Thief scrubbed the counter with extra vigor. 

“But the lows. We can’t always handle the criticism, the shouting, the arguing and belittling. Being told we’re not enough,” he sighed, then added in a much softer voice. “That I’m not enough.”

He tossed the paper towels away into the trash bin, beneath the sink, and leaned his back on the sink’s edge. “Sometimes, I can’t help but wish I wanted to be alone. And if we self-impose that loneliness, then it might make it easier. To be alone.”

Virgil rubbed the back of his neck, watching. He’d known that they were less than supportive, on the best of days, but that was their job. Especially Virgil’s. He was the guy who was supposed to spot possible problems, things that the audience might not like, things that might endanger Thomas. He’d thought that Roman understood that he was doing it out of….

Alright, there was the L word again. 

His internal monologue was interrupted when the Thief stood up straight and faced Virgil determinedly, wearing a tired smile.

“If you can convince the others, then I’ll come quiet. I just think that being alone’s….easier to handle,” he laughed a little to himself, a quiet chuckle that Virgil thought sounded hollow. “Besides, if Roman isolates himself, then it doesn’t matter if….”

His smile faltered a little, eyes seeming to watch something distantly away from Virgil. As quick as the expression came, though, it went as he looked back down at the counter. He reached up and ran his hands through his hair, settling it back.

There must be something Virgil should do or say. There must be, because sitting in silence like this — god, the Thief was gonna start crying, wasn’t he? 

What wouldn’t matter? The question burned in his mind. 

“....Haven’t I been through enough heartbreaks?” 

The Thief’s question was so quiet, so desperate, that Virgil thought he just imagined it until a floorboard creak behind him indicated that someone had approached. He glanced back to see Deceit, hair still damp, clothed in a simple cream shirt and dark brown trousers. Pajamas, clearly, maybe taken from the room. Deceit nodded to the Thief, who was hunching over the counter, eyes stuck on the counter. 

Virgil pursed his lips and made a so-so hand motion. He didn’t know exactly what was motivating the Thief, but they were getting inklings. Deceit nodded again in response and stood behind Virgil. 

Who turned back to the Thief, still staring at the table. “We need you,” was how Virgil started, trying to piece together the best way to phrase what he wanted to say.

The Thief looked up at him and Virgil saw some wetness glittering in his dark brown eyes. They locked with his, not necessarily a glare nor anything aggressive. You could have convinced Virgil that the Thief was pleading. But for what, he couldn’t tell. 

And then he smiled. He smiled and shook his head, looking away again. 

“I…” He covered his mouth with a hand and reconsidered, shaking his head, “Nah, it’s dumb.”

“You’re not dumb, Thief.”

Virgil pushed off of the doorway to stand besides the Thief as he sank into one of the counter stools. Gently, like Roman had done for him many times, he put his hands on the Thief’s shoulders. “Can I?” he asked, voice quiet.

The Thief nodded, hand holding his mouth tight. His other hand, resting on the table and not gripping anything, had a slight tremor. Deceit stepped into the dining area, lips pinched in worry. He certainly wasn’t the one silencing the Thief, if it was anyone at all.

Virgil began rubbing the Thief’s shoulders, leaning closer and watching as his shoulders hiked up a little more. He was so tense, stiff as a rock. 

“Listen. Thief,” Virgil glanced at Deceit, who was shifting his weight lamely, and nodded toward the mugs. 

Deceit seemed to get the idea, because he nodded and got to work immediately. The Thief’s hand slid upward, covering his eyes now, and he shuddered as Virgil put more pressure on his shoulders. “Is this okay?” Virgil asked again, quietly, and the Thief nodded.

“Thanks,” his voice was so quiet that Virgil could barely hear him. 

“You know,” Virgil hummed, quiet but determined. “I tried the whole lone-wolf thing. Thought it’d be good to keep myself separate ‘cause it would protect you all. Thought that was for the best. None of you seemed to want me back then, either.”

The Thief whined, and Virgil let up. But as his shoulders stiffened again, Virgil felt his anxiety mount. “No–uh, sorry, no that just–that was a good spot,” the Thief tried to explain, face turning redder under his hand.

Deceit snorted behind him, and Virgil kicked his heel out, managing to hit him square in the shin. He let out a chuckle when Deceit hissed in pain. 

“I’m sorry. That we made you feel like that,” both of the other Sides looked at the Thief, whose hands were now both on the counter.

Virgil’s were still resting on his shoulders, so he exhaled and pressed down again. “We-We shouldn’t have—” the Thief tried to continue, but Virgil cut him off.

“Not saying you shouldn’t have, but you’ve been apologizing for it. You….all accept me, now. I’m working on getting used to that, you all work on making me feel included, and we work together. Maybe there’re highs, maybe there’re lows. That’s how everything goes, but we always get through it when we work as a team. ‘Cause teamwork makes the dream work, right?” Virgil smiled when the Thief snorted, “And we can’t make the team work without the dream.”

The Thief sat up a little more. Virgil didn’t want to pressure him or anything, so he rubbed a particularly tight knot near the base of his neck before letting go. It seemed that the Thief came to some understanding, though.

“Hot chocolate’s done,” Deceit said.

He leaned down beside Virgil and set a full mug down on the counter in front of the Thief. He then nudged Virgil’s hip with his own, holding out a mug for him but eyes not meeting Virgil’s. 

That was the first bad sign. Virgil pressed his mouth into a line. Before he could make a move, though, Deceit picked up his own mug and stepped away. “I’m going to sleep,” he announced, “I can only assume tomorrow will be just as taxing as today was. Goodnight Roman. Virgil.”

Deceit’s eyes were still cast lower as he nodded once toward the Thief and once toward Virgil, and he stared at the floor as he hurried to the hallway. He disappeared down the hall, into the darkness, and they both heard his door close sharply. 

Damn. So much for that truce. 

Yeah, sure, Virgil wasn’t fond of Deceit. Much. 

He used to be. They used to be thick as thieves — Patton would be proud of that pun, Virgil thought — and while time and responsibilities have wore down that relationship….Deceit was still important to him. Yeah, he was a bad influence, but, like….

Whatever. He didn’t care. He didn’t.

The Thief leaned back a little, head resting on Virgil’s shoulder. “You should sleep, too, Paramoody.”

His head tilted back and he smiled up at Virgil, who squinted at him. “If you fall backwards on that stool, I’m gonna laugh.”

“In fact, I’m the owner of Roman’s single braincell,” the Thief’s smile softened, “Thanks for earlier. I’ll think about that.”

His eyes were so soft. Had Roman always had that little beauty mark? Virgil really only noticed it now, with his face so close and with that weird scar pointing at it. 

Not that he endorsed Roman being damaged in any physical way, but the scar was also. Pretty hot.

The Thief chuckled quietly, one hand reaching up to patt Virgil’s cheek.

His hands were a little cold, but they were soft, despite the scars. Virgil could feel him shudder a tiny bit as the Thief gently ran his thumb along his cheekbone. 

Virgil felt….comfortable.

Why didn’t he want this, again? The Thief watched Virgil watching him, and saw him slowly lean his head into his hand. He must be tired, that was why Virgil was so open with him. There couldn’t have been another reason.

Still. 

“Alright, you actually need to sleep, ‘cause your eyeshadow’s all over your face,” the Thief pulled his hand away and sat upright again.

As he slid off the stool, saying something about sleep and grabbing his hand, Virgil tuned him out, letting himself be pulled around. 

What the hell was THAT moment? This was the absolute worst time to be reminded that he was a disaster, and the Thief must be so creeped out by how he was just staring at his goddamn face. 

“And my room’s upstairs. If you go up the stairs, take a left, you’ll find me, okay?” Virgil blinked, looking up. 

They were at the entrance to the hallway now. The Thief smiled kindly at him, though his brow was pinched in worry. “Have a good night, Virgil,” he whispered, hand still holding Virgil’s.

Virgil nodded, not trusting what he’d say if he opened his mouth, and met him with a small smile.

He wished had retained more of the romantic parts of Roman. Then, maybe, he’d be able to find the right words to describe how willing he was to throw this whole challenge away just to see that smile for the rest of eternity.

The Thief leaned in and pecked Virgil’s cheek. Then, he darted away, waist sash trailing up after him as he escaped up the stairs.

Virgil stared into nothing, eyes stuck to the empty staircase. Slowly, his hand lifted to his cheek, fingers grazing where the Thief’s — Roman’s — lips had been. 

What the fuck. 

Don’t even consider it. 

He found himself walking back to the room he’d chosen — it was easy to find, his storm cloud logo was glowing a soft purple on the door — and collapsed onto the bed. 

Virgil was absolutely sore from how fast his thoughts had been running today. It felt like years ago that he’d found Deceit in the hall and slammed him into the wall. 

Oof. Maybe he wouldn’t sleep tonight, now that he’d remembered that. Virgil groaned into his pillow, crossing his arms over his head and pressing into it as his breathing’s erraticness increased

Deceit had been truly upset. Frustrated, angry, yeah, sure, that was the point — Virgil hadn’t expected that flash of betrayal. He couldn’t get that stupid snakey hurt expression out of his goddamn head. Plus it was just poor instincts to immediately strangle someone. And the way Deceit had slunk out of the kitchen just now, not daring to look at either of their faces. 

He screamed into the pillow, pressing down into it even more. Calm down. He had to calm down. 

What, why calm down now? You’d been holding this panic attack in all day, Virgil. 

The pillow grew damp beneath his face; he hadn’t noticed that he was crying a little. 

Virgil flipped over, now pressing the back of his head into the pillow, and wrapped his arms around his head, wiping at his eyes with his hand. He began tapping his left hand on the back of his arm, counting quietly as he inhaled, held, and exhaled.

It helped that it wasn’t completely silent. Virgil’s room had a window, a circle in above the bed. A gentle breeze wafted in, as did the sound of the trees rustling, frogs croaking, and bugs buzzing — a solid background noise to focus on, rather than the day’s events. Virgil mentally counted the frogs’ croaks as he felt his chest loosen. Maybe it was a product of being in the Imagination and, by extension, Roman’s room, but he got a grip of himself faster than usual.

As he calmed down, though, he also regained the feelings of absolute exhaustion. Calm quickly turned to drowsiness, and Virgil was asleep within seconds. 


	9. INTERMISSION: incomplete (the puzzle song)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: cursing/swearing, a lot of self-hatred, scheming lmao — i think that's it, but please let me know if i've forgotten any!!
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY FAVORITE SON ROMAN!!!!!!! <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 we're rounding off this part of chivalry in celebration \u7u/
> 
> hope y'all enjoy! <3

_ “I don't want to say I'm too cool....But I'm just too sad for you fools...And I feel like you don't get me...” _

“Shut up with that stupid song. How long has it been?”

“Only a day. Long enough for the boss man to feel it.”

“Son of a bitch. What the hell’re we going to do?”

“....”

“Hey! Hey, answer me, Roman, you fucking moron, what the hell should we do?”

“I’m thinking. And I thought we weren’t using names, Roman.”

“Oh, fuck off with that! We need to speed this up. Ignore the Sides, just start hunting the others!”

“You’ll be upset if you don’t see the Sides.”

“SO I would be devastated, but if this all takes too long, I–We can’t hurt Thomas. You don’t want me to.”

“....We can invite everyone here. Stage a big event, bring all the others under one roof. You’re going to need bait to make all the Sides and all the others agree but that’s probably the fastest way to guarantee attendance. Make it a ball or something.”

“I’ve got you.”

“You think they care about  me ? Dragon. You know better.”

“Fine. Who do you have in mind?”

“Child.”

“Wow.”

“If they’ve met him, then they probably love him. The others would all come. The Sides wouldn’t let any of the others come alone. It’s….it makes sense.”

“You’re ready to off Child? Is having me around affecting your thought process, my Creative Captive, or are you finally ready to continue this game of cat and mouse?”

“Shut up. I just want this over. Thomas needs us in one piece, whatever that piece looks like.”

“It’s going to be a beautiful piece. The other sides are going to adore me.”

“You mispronounced abhor.”

“Fuck off. I’m going to sleep.  Don’t keep us up.”

“Of course, your Heinous.”

* * *

 

Thomas drummed his fingers on the computer’s keyboard, humming along to the song he was listening to. He’d been in a Disney mood lately, so he was listening to the second compilation, and had let intuition lead him in his humming and whistling and occasional singing. 

The big downside, though, was that he couldn’t actually think of any good ideas. Scratch that — he hadn’t had ANY ideas. 

He had gone on two walks, driven around the city, sat in the park and pondered life, and he still had absolutely no idea what he wanted to do for his next anything. In theory, he was planning for the next Sanders Sides episode. Well, in ultra-theory, he was editing the next Sanders Sides episode’s script, but you can’t edit a script that wasn’t written yet! In practice, he’d been scrolling through Twitter for the past few hours. Tumblr for a nondescript number of hours before that, with a break at around 11 for lunch and 6 for dinner. He just stared at the blank page for a few minutes, then flicked over to another tab to procrastinate. 

Thomas didn’t even think anything of it until he glanced at the corner of his computer and saw that it was fifteen past two a.m. 

That couldn’t be right. Thomas squinted at his computer, then at the window. 

It was dark. Not a sunset-is-soon dark, but a its-the-middle-of-the-night dark.

Goodness gracious, how had he wasted the entire day without noticing. He closed the blank document tab with a sigh. 

Then he moved his leg off of the table. 

Pain shot through the appendage, stiff and frozen as a board. Thomas groaned, slouching further into the couch while he waited for the pins and needles feeling wear off. Yikes. He hadn’t even noticed. 

Perhaps. He could just sleep here.

He squinted. That sure as hell was an option, and it wouldn’t be the first time. Why not?

….No. No, if he did nothing else of merit today, then he should at least put himself to sleep in his own bed. Right? 

Thomas looked around his living room, as though expecting validation from someone that this was the correct decision, and found none. Of course he’d find none, though. Wasn’t like there were more people in his apartment.

He closed his laptop as soon as the screen blackened, setting it aside and sitting upright. Slowly, he stretched his arms upward, hissing through his teeth. It was just an off-day — tomorrow would be better. He had actual plans. Sure, it was just dinner with some friends, but still. Plans. 

Either way, they weren’t due to start filming the next Sides’ episode until Monday, so he had a few days to get out of this funk, whatever it was. 

Oh my God. The Sides. That’s probably why he instinctually looked up, how did he forget that the Sides existed.

You’re just tired, Sanders. C’mon, upsy daisy. 

Thomas picked up the laptop and stood, starting for the stairway. His nightly routine was reflex enough that he sped through it. Finally, he set his laptop down on his bedside table and rolled over, elongated phone cord pulling with him.

He couldn’t deny that he felt a little incomplete. Like something was holding back his ability to process things, to think clearly and quickly. It reminded him of those song edits on Tumblr, where the song was played behind a wall. Hopefully it’d pass on its own. If it didn’t, though, then he might have to call up the Sides and ask. 

Why didn’t he just do that now? 

Thomas frowned at his phone. It may be night, but if he was awake, it was likely some of them were awake too. Wouldn’t that be the most logical thing to do? 

Probably? He couldn’t tell. 

And he didn’t really want to….

And that settled it, he guessed. He set an alarm for 7 a.m. and put his phone on the table. He resolved, internally, to call on the Sides tomorrow morning and ask if there was anything wrong. Hopefully they’d have an answer.


	10. when will my life begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: arguing, yelling, knife, threatening, death threats, food/food mention (i should have tagged that in chapter 8 — gonna fix that ASAP it’s written on my arm :’D)
> 
> it is with this chapter that i realize how the second most focused on character in this is logan............,.,.,......,. hell fuckin yeah bois

Logan woke up first. 

He rubbed his face, not changing his position just yet. He noticed that the room’s ceiling was red, with baby pink clouds floating along. Perhaps this reflected on the weather outside, or the sunrise? Either way, it was pretty. 

He sat up, putting his glasses on fluidly. Patton was still fast asleep, light snores drifting  from against the bean bag he was spooning. The Child seemed to be a rambunctious sleeper, as his legs were bent over the bed’s edge, blanket covering his face.

He hadn’t forgotten their revelations from the previous night, not at all, and a small, content sigh escaped his lips when he saw that both of his companions were asleep sound. It was a well deserved rest.

According to his internal clock, it was definitely past sunrise, a fair 7:12 a.m. It occured to Logan that “after sunrise” was the most nondescript timestamp he could have placed on their reunion with Deceit and Virgil, but he didn’t have the energy yet to worry about that. After all, he doesn’t function well without coffee. He also should have been concerned about the Artist downstairs. Surely he has to sleep, too, though? And it was unlikely he’ll attempt violence this early in the morning. 

Most important, however, is the fact that Logan needs coffee.

Carefully, he stepped around Patton towards the door, taking his cloak with him. He took care to move slow down the stairs, letting the wooden steps creak slowly instead of in loud snaps. 

The ground floor hadn’t changed since the previous night. Paintings and art equipment were still strewn about in an organizational method probably only understood by the Artist himself. The man in question was splayed out on what seems to be a small couch — in front of the easel from last night. Along with that, the stool had disappeared. It wasn’t a healthy practice, but Logan had to admit that it was efficient to simply change one seat for another as bedtime rolled around.

Coffee time.

He walked around the couch, still careful about his footsteps, and entered the kitchen. There was a coffee machine in the corner that Logan immediately put to use. Now, with a warm mug in his hands, he squinted around at the setting. 

He should make breakfast for everyone. He had the time, and food would greatly sustain himself, Patton, and probably the Child for their future endeavors. Perhaps the Artist would also enjoy a meal? Yes, the Artist reportedly doesn’t like them, but it would be against Logan’s nature to take that sort of statement at face value without running his own experiments. 

First, he had to know what he had to work with. Logan opened the refrigerator — why were there modern appliances in a medieval setting? He would have to ask….someone — and found it sparse but useable. There was a full carton of eggs, and milk.

After water testing each egg, Logan set a pan over one of the stove burners. He would have to ask about consistency in setting because, um, a stove? He wasn’t about to not use it, but he was judging the “historical accuracy” that the Playwright had harped about. 

Speaking of the Playwright. Logan leaned on the counter with his butt and took the Playwright’s book out of his jacket pocket. In all of last night’s hassle, he’d forgotten to check the “Author’s Notes” section, and there had to have been even more updates since then. He nearly flipped the cover on instinct but a distinct golden glow caught his eye. 

The ribbon decal was still adorned on the front, though it was noticeably less impactful than the golden circle in the center. The sun of Roman’s crest. The Child. Logan ran his thumb over it, watching as it actually exuded a warm yellow glow around his finger. If Logan was still willing to trust the Playwright’s explanation, then that meant they’d won the Child over. That he trusted them.

He squinted at the cover. The ribbon was a divot in the cover, like leather pressing. Probably to mark the book, maybe even to fool the Sides into letting him go without argument. 

Even lighter on the cover, though, was the outline of the crest. The leather was a dark red color, but closer to the center was a lighter red, more matching of Roman’s sash, and there was a light indentation marking where the crest’s border would be. Perhaps it was because they had met more figments? Or maybe Virgil and Deceit had met with another part enough to make a mark? Either option was promising. 

The former seemed to be the case, because the Table of Contents had extended to include….multiple more Romans. It seemed that Virgil and Deceit had been busy. Below the Playwright and the Author Notes was now “The Child,” “The Thief,” “The Artist,” “The Bard,” “The Dragon,” and “The Damsel.” That was all seven. Transfixed, he began flipping to “The Dragon.”

There were bullet pointed notes, but no sketch like there had been for the Playwright. Perhaps it would update with more once they’d found him.

“- Lives in the castle

\- Wants to kill everyone

\- Would not hesitate (bitch)

\- Captured and tortured Damsel

\- I cannot stress this enough — DO NOT ENGAGE”

Logan raised an eyebrow. A villain. A very cliche villain, too, given that he was a dragon. He wasn’t necessarily inclined to trust the Playwright’s warnings, though. Surely there wasn’t really a form of Roman who would want to kill all of them? Perhaps throttle, but not murder. 

“You’re not Teacher Dude, are you?”

Logan nearly dropped the book. He snapped it shut and whirled around, ascot flapping into his face. The Artist stood in the kitchen’s entry, sleep still evident in his eyes behind the same glasses Logan wore. He squinted at Logan as though daring him to lie.

Which, of course, he did. Logan straightened his posture and fixed his outfit, carefully sliding the book back into his jacket pocket. “I am. Cur of you to say that,” the Teacher Dude smiled, right? He was a little more of a funny man. Logan smiled. 

The Artist winced. “You sure as hell aren’t an actor. Dad Guy wakes up first. Teacher Guy’s has a trash sleep schedule, since he procrastinates on grading papers. You’re Logic.”

Logan….supposed that was valid. He didn’t know enough about the Teacher’s character to refute that claim. He cleared his throat and turned back to the pan, beginning to crack the eggs for the scramble. 

Hang on. Was his smile that unnatural? 

The Artist took his silence as a yes. He nodded to the coffee machine. “Mind if I take some of that?”

Logan nodded, stepping away from the machine. “Of course.”

The Artist nodded back and began fixing himself a mug. He stood beside Logan, who pushed the half-cooked eggs around the pan in an effort to maintain some air of regularity. He only felt a little awkward, considering the Child’s warnings and the yelling match he had with Playwright the night prior.

It didn’t seem that the Artist cared, though. After he poured himself coffee, he stayed in the kitchen, leaning on the counter and watching Logan cook. 

“The Child brought you, right?” The Artist sipped his coffee, watching Logan’s shoulders hike up when he spoke. 

“Yes. He did,” Logan said.

“So Padre’s upstairs, too.”

“Yes,” Logan exhaled slowly, “Do you want any breakfast?”

The Artist looked at the eggs. Logan really just made them breakfast, huh?

“I don’t eat. We don’t need to,” he looked back up at Logan’s face, squinting, “Wouldn’t that be illogical?”

Logan raised an eyebrow. Okay. Maybe he was a little scared, but Logan wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to point  out that he was being a petty baby.

“Well,” the Artist rolled his eyes as Logan began to explain. “Roman typically eats meals with us, so everyone maintains an even circadian rhythm. While unnecessary in the literal sense, breaking from that routine has likely damaged your stamina, resulting in phantom hunger cramps. My current hypothesis is that that’s what you’re feeling, or….that you don’t want to eat because I’m here.”

There, he said it. Logan could see the hostility in the Artist’s eyes. There was more, something heavier and deeper, probably a nuance he wasn’t picking up on, but the bitterness was indisputable. Or was it simply sadness? Nevermind that. 

The feeling in his chest was tight now, not like the fluttering he’d pondered last night. This was more upsetting. It felt like the thing gripping his lungs had a tighter hold, almost threatening. Why was this such a surprise? He knew that the Artist didn’t like him. He should stop developing preconceived opinions of these different Romans, because it wouldn’t benefit him if he continued entering these situations with fallacious speculations.

The Artist averted his gaze, and then turned around. A quiet concession, it seemed. He opened the freezer and pulled out a bag of hash brown patties. “I’ll make hash browns,” his voice was low, almost a whisper. 

Logan didn’t want to let it go, though. He had to know. “The Child mentioned that you dislike us.”

Oof, maybe he was being too bold, because he winced at his own words. The Artist was also taken aback; he probably didn’t think Logan would bring up the room’s incredible tension. 

For a few seconds, they just stared at each other, unsure of how to continue. The Artist recovered first, with a sharp shake of his head. “I don’t,” he said, even quieter. 

He opened the bag and took out another pan, heating some oil. Logan took a step back, setting the eggs down on the counter. 

“So you do like us? Us being myself and my compatriots.” 

“I mean. I don’t not like you,” the Artist began flipping the patties, “Doesn’t mean I like you.”

Logan frowned. “Can you elaborate?”

The Artist cast him a wary glance, then looked back at the hashbrowns. “I’m indifferent. I don’t need you, and you don’t need me, so we’re at a comfortable numbness.”

Comfortable numbness. What was that, a call back? Logan leaned on the wall, watching the Artist cook quietly. 

It seemed that the Artist quickly forgot his presence, too, as he began to hum. He flipped the finished patties one by one onto the drying plate. A little airheaded, perhaps? But he had been quite astute earlier. Or maybe Logan just was a really bad actor — he didn’t know. He did know, however, that the tightness in his lungs was softening. 

Logan cleared his throat, and the Artist didn’t react. “What are your….plans?”

“Paint,” he responded simply.

“....anything else?” Wow, it was hard getting this one to talk. The Child had been so ready to explain everything to himself and Patton the night prior.

The Artist seemed to consider his question for a second, as though contemplating if it were worth his time. It seemed to be. “Kick you all out. You, Pitterpatt, and Child being here is puts a target on my house, Professor Binns. I would prefer to not draw Dragon’s attention.”

That was understandable. Logan let his shoulders relax — he definitely hadn’t been worried about an argument or actual physical confrontation, given how the biting the Artist had been the night prior — and he followed the Artist in arranging a plate. 

They worked in silent tandem, though once the Artist was finished, he set his plate aside and opened the cabinet overhead. He pulled out a toaster, then a loaf of bread, and finally, to Logan’s surprise, a jar of Logan’s berry Crofters jelly. 

The Artist caught a glimpse at Logan’s expression and met him with a tired shrug. “It’s a good flavor,” he turned back around once the slices of toast popped up. Logan’s face mustn’t have changed, because the Artist squinted at him again, suspiciously, and added, “What are you, the jelly police? Fuck off.”

Logan blinked, then turned back to the eggs. He stepped back again, now feeling out of his depths as the Artist toasted eight slices of bread and set all but two aside. Those he took for himself, spreading each with a thick layer of jelly. When it looked like he was done, Logan stepped forward, but the Artist just turned toward him with a stoic expression.

“I’m going to start painting. Don’t,” the Artist pointed the spreading knife at Logan, voice dropping to a threatening tone, “Interrupt me. After you’re all done eating, I want you all out of my house.”

It seemed that he really cared about his work. Logan fixed his glasses, lowering the jelly covered knife with his finger. 

“Of course,” he said, licking his finger clean of jelly.

Oh, fuck yeah, that was the good shit.

The Artist, happy with his response, nodded and swiveled the knife around. Logan took the handle and they rotated, the Artist walking away to his easel and Logan to his jelly. It occured to Logan, then, that if he had a question he should ask it now. Before it became a safety hazard to ask.

“Wait.”

The Artist, just about to sit, looked up at him with a frown. “What?”

Logan looked around at the piles upon piles of paintings. They had intrigued him since the night before, but he’d wanted permission before inspecting.

“May I look at your art after breakfast? I assure you that I will not damage any of your works.”

The Artist looked around, too, and pinched his brows. His hands came up to run through his hair. 

Logan shifted his weight awkwardly. It was a fairly simple question, but the pregnant pause implied some deeper worry. 

Well, it was Logan. While he wasn’t a big fan OF Logan, he and Virgil were the least likely to physically damage them. 

He loved Patton, but the man would probably drop a few of them without realizing the damage that’d do to the canvas. And Deceit….he wasn’t a big fan of fake compliments. 

On the alternative hand, Logan was most likely to critique them. 

The Artist was sure he couldn’t take that. Not right now, not with this ridiculous art block and murder game interfering with his creative process. On any other day, he would be able to bear the brunt of….no, no. He probably couldn’t take any criticism. That sort of mental processing went to another facet of himself.

But, when Logan PRAISED him….it felt like the world. It felt like the sunset casting a warm glow upon the summer’s night. Like a bird training to fly who’d fallen from a nest only to take off and soar. Like glimmering flashes across a lake at sunrise. 

Oh, it felt like heaven. 

Was it all worth that one possible compliment?

“Sure,” the Artist found himself saying, hands resting on the back of his head, “Knock yourself out.”

Logan frowned. “I assure you, I do not plan on making myself unconscious.”

The Artist waved his hand, suddenly more distracted looking as his eyes flew around between his current work-in-progress and the other paintings. “It means go ahead. I’m going to begin painting. Tell Pat-in-the-Hat and Child not to disturb me.”

He screwed his eyes shut, drew in a breath, and….summoned a sketch pad and pencil. Logan watched as he began repeating the same hand movement over and over across the blank page, an art warm-up. 

For a second, he was honestly proud that Roman remembered his suggested warm-ups. He’d been worried, once Roman first took up sketching as a means to jot his ideas down, that the creative side’s erratic nature would mean less self-care, so he researched a few ways to prevent hand cramps when drawing. Adequate art warm-ups was one of those ways and was a way to prevent one’s hand growing stiff. 

Well. This whole morning was definitely a shift from the snappy, angry Artist from last night. Logan briefly wondered what the change may have been. 

No matter. He should probably eat before engaging in any of the art; he would hate to dirty it. He also didn’t want to get in the Artist’s way. The Artist had just put his plate down beside the stool and immediately begun working, and to be honest, that didn’t bode well for the food. But it was too late for Logan to bring that up, especially with such explicit instructions.

For someone who disliked order, the Artist followed his personalized organizational methods to the dot.

Logan stayed in the kitchen, watching him paint from afar, letting his eyes wander over the other pieces. Slowly, he sat on the ground, crossing his legs and leaning against the wall. It was peaceful

Okay, well, that was interrupted by pounding on the steps above. Logan turned just in time to see Patton peek out from around the stair’s bend, hair still fairly disheveled and glasses lopsidedly resting on his nose. 

“Well, good morning!” he said with a grin. 

The Artist didn’t react, continuing in his warm-up routine, but Logan waved. “Good morning, Patt,” he said.

“It’s nice to see you, Roman!” the Artist rolled his eyes, but stiffened immensely when Patton hugged him from the side. 

He didn’t loosen when Patton let go and moved on to Logan, still leant on the counter, hand resting on his chest, emotional outburst behind him. Patton had hugged him.

“Good mornin’, Logarithm!”

Okay. Logan drew in a small breath. That nickname? “Did you just call me logarithm?” Logan asked, raising an eyebrow. 

He was a little astounded that Patton knew what a logarithm was. Patton nodded, still chipper as ever. “Yep! If you write logarithms in their regular, no numbers-form, it’s your name!” 

Logan squinted. 

Holy fuck.

While Logan ran that pun through his mind, Patton went to the kitchen. “Did you both make breakfast?” he asked, ignoring that Logan was still trying to figure out how he hadn’t discovered his own name-pun and that the Artist hadn’t un-frozen yet from his hug.

Despite the lack of response, Patton continued, making himself a plate. “You’re so sweet! I’m glad you were working together this morning, then!”

Logan smiled a tiny bit. They had worked fairly well, hadn’t they? He stole a glance at the Artist, who was still frozen. He was looking at Patton with a weirdly choked expression, though. A cross between anger and something else. 

His eyes flicked down to the Artist’s food, mostly eaten. He must have eaten it while Logan wasn’t paying attention. 

“Logie, did you eat?” It seemed that Patton hadn’t noticed how stressed the Artist looked.

“Yes, Patt, I did. Thank you for your concern. I am going to do my and the Artist’s dishes now,” Logan picked up the Artist’s plate from the ground, not looking at him as he took them both to the kitchen. “Has the Child woken up yet?”

Patton shook his head, leaning on the wall behind the counter while Logan began to clean the dishes. “Nope! He’s out like a light!”

He looked over at the Artist, who was still as a statue, and turned back to Logan in a more hushed voice. “Is he okay?” he asked.

Logan glanced at the Artist, then looked back at Patton. “I cannot say. He was fine earlier,” did Logan want to mention that he stiffened only after Patton hugged him?

Yes. It was better to not hide these things. “He hasn’t moved since you hugged him,” Logan whispered, “Maybe he is a touch-averse Roman?”

Immediately, Patton was regretful. Gosh, he hoped he hadn’t upset the Artist. Roman was usually the only Side okay with spontaneous hugs, and he’d been too sleepy to remember that the multiple Roman situation meant every Roman might have different boundaries. 

Should he apologize? Probably. That was the good thing to do! 

Patton spun back around and walked up to the Artist, who was still frozen. “Sorry for the hug, kiddo,” Patton said, rubbing the back of his head, “I, uh, hope I didn’t  _ paint _ myself in any bad light!”

The Artist blinked, then looked up at him, mouth pressed into a firm line. Patton actually flinched from the confused anger in his gaze. The pun couldn’t have been that bad. Could it?

He opened his mouth, irritation clearly mounting, but then clamped back down and bit his lip. He looked away, not reacting to Patton’s bewilderment, and simply starred at the painting he’d been working on. It hadn’t been ruined, oh, no, he hadn’t even started yet. His mind had just been abruptly yanked away from the Zone. 

“It’s okay,” the Artist spoke through gritted teeth, “I already talked to Delbert Doppler over there. Please leave me to my work.”

Patton stepped back when the Artist extended his hands, conjuring a paintbrush and the palette that they’d seen him using the previous night. And then he set to painting.

It’d be a lie to say Patton wasn’t a little hurt, despite the already-negative impression the Artist had left. But he was hoping that’d been a late-night kind of fluke! A little moment where the Artist was just too tired and stressed! And he’d heard Logan and him working together well earlier….

“Patt,” Logan’s voice drew his attention back to the kitchen.

He was holding a plate fully set with eggs, hash browns, and two lightly-jammed slices of toast. Logan met Patton’s surprised expression with a small smile. “Breakfast?”

“Oh!” Patton took the plate and plastered on a smile. “Thank you, Lo!”

Neither seemed sure of what to do — did either remember the events of last night? After a few awkwardly quiet moments of smiling at each other, Logan cleared his throat and stepped back. “I am going to look around at the paintings that Artist has done. I would recommend staying in here,” he gestured to the kitchen, “As Artist is….fairly serious about not damaging his work. And not being disturbed.”

“Oooh, gotcha. That’s probably why he’s been a lil’ snappy, right?” That made sense in Patton’s mind! If the Artist wanted to not be disturbed, and Patton had unintentionally disturbed him, it made sense that he’d be a little peeved but not too mad or sad. Smad, if you would.

Logan nodded. “Perhaps. Either way, it would be better if we don’t disturb him,” he looked around at the art and picked up the first painting. 

While Logan parsed through the different works, Patton sat down cross legged in the kitchen, munching happily on the eggs. Logan must have made them, he really did make the best eggs! The perfect level of juicy and cooked. 

….It made him miss Virgil. The routine was to do famILY breakfasts, with Virgil, Patton, Logan, and Roman all sitting around the kitchen table. Patton leaned back on the wall and let out a small exhale. A small part of him wondered if they’d ever get to do that again, if Roman was going to be so changed after this. The Playwright hadn’t actually taken their words into consideration. He didn’t know how much they loved him. 

How much Patton loved him. 

Because, yeah, he could admit it. Patton was in love with EVERYONE. Virgil, Logan, Roman, even Deceit — it felt like swimming in honey, thick and goopy and wrapping around him in a warm embarrassment whenever Roman yanked him into a dance in the kitchen, or Virgil leaned on him during movie night. Whenever Logan read him a favored part of whatever he was reading, or when Deceit would trade puns and one liners with him. 

He was floored, surrounded by this bubbly love that felt like a celebratory champagne. 

Probably. It was probably love. Sifting through emotions may have been part of his job description, but that didn’t mean he was good at it. And he didn’t know if anyone felt the same, if anyone loved him back. Logan’d said something the other night, but…. And it wasn’t his job to sift through HIS emotions. Just Thomas’, technically. 

Wait, was this just a different take on Thomas’ self-love? 

Either way, the fluffiness he felt, the warmth at the tips of his fingers and the tingling in his cheeks when he smiled at seeing his lovely boys….It was nice.

It was all nice. 

Just as nice as those paintings. 

Logan had peeked through two stacks and found a lot. First, none of them were finished. Whether it simply lacked depth, or was literally half-painted, or only had base colors, none of these paintings were remotely completed. Every single one that Logan had seen was a work in progress. 

Beyond that, he’d found multiple scenes of himself and the other Sides. There was one in particular he was….quite fond of, in all honesty. He’d looked it over for a few minutes. It was a half-finished painting of himself, sitting on the couch in the Mind Palace. And the only “finished” part was himself, fully colored in a semi-realistic impressionist warming glow. 

Was that how Roman saw him? He knew that the impressionist movement emphasized the perception of events and movements, taking care of the lighting in environments to reflect not only upon the realistic light sources, but also on how the artist perceives such moments. It seemed….

Well, he didn’t much believe that the Artist was disliked them. Not after seeing these. But it unnerved him that so many were unfinished and unfocused. What was Roman lacking? Was it just an art block?

Patton stood up and patted Logan’s side. “I’m gonna wake up Child,” he whispered, glancing sideways at the Artist, who was painting now, “Get him some breakfast so we can be on our way.”

Logan nodded, putting a painting of a simple house down. “Very well. As soon as he is ready, we should leave. The Artist expressed a desire for all three of us to leave.”

Patton’s brow furrowed, and looked at the Artist, who wasn’t paying them any mind. The Child had to leave, too? Patton just wanted to say goodbye, he didn’t think that they’d be taking him with him. Wasn’t it dangerous outside? 

“Wouldn’t it be safer for him to stay here?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at Logan now.

Logan pursed his lips. 

Patton was probably right. It….was logical, that the Child would be safer hidden here, between multiple failsafes. “The Artist didn’t want him to stay here,” Logan murmured, “I am unsure why.”

“Well, how about we ask him!”

“Ask who what?” 

Patton and Logan looked up to see the Child standing in the stairway, rubbing his eyes, yawning wide. He smacked his lips and grinned at them as they stood in the kitchen entryway, watching with slightly stricken expressions. If he saw anything wrong with that, though, he didn’t say. 

“Awh, is that breakfast?!” the Child bounded down from the stairs and launched himself from the base, sliding his socked feet along the smoothed wooden floor.

He slid straight into Patton, who caught him with a “Woop!” This Roman was much more of a hugger, as the Child wrapped his arms around Patton’s hip and squeezed him tight.

_ Love _

The Child snuggled his face into Patton’s side, until he caught a whiff of the eggs. “Oh my God,” he leaned back, though kept his hands balled in Patton’s shirt, “Did Loga–Did Logic make eggs?”

Okay, Logan honestly had no idea his eggs were this popular. “I–um, yes, I did,” he stepped back into the kitchen, “Are you able to make your own plate?”

“Um,” the Child rubbed his chin in thought — Patton was going to die, right here, in the Imagination, because Roman as a kid was so adorable. Just, the cutest. Curse the natural dad instincts — “I think I can!”

He hopped over to the counter, which he could barely peek over, and grabbed a plate. Carefully, and Logan watched just in case, the Child loaded up a plate of eggs, hash browns, and toast. And the whole rest of jelly jar. 

He shot Logan a squinted, suspicious look, and held the jelly jar closer. “This one’s mine,” he hissed, “You jelly fiend.”

Logan didn’t know whether to be offended or pleased that that was his reputation. Like….this was a child. But also, he was a serious man with serious problems to attend to, and being labeled a “jelly fiend” was detrimental to that reputation. 

But he was talking to a child, THE Child. He may as well play along. He looked to Patton for help, but only found the moral side with his fists pressed up to his cheek, figurative stars in his eyes while watching the Child spoon the jelly out of the jar and consume it.

Logan put his hands up in defeat. “I will not take your jelly,” he said.

“Promise?” the Child asked, pointing the spoon at Logan accusingly.

Alright. He’d admit it. The Child was a positive influence. “I promise.” 

The Child raised an eyebrow, but said nothing else. Evidently placated by Logan’s promise, he licked the spoon. 

While Logan dealt with the Child, Patton moved closer to the Artist. He hadn’t let go of the whole you’re-letting-a-child-lose-in-a-murder-situation thing and really, nothing anyone said was going to make him let go of that.

And, yeah, sure, Logan and the Artist both said not to bother him. But it couldn’t be that bad! They’d be out of his hair as soon as he said he’d let the Child stay. Patton didn’t understand the harm in a quick interruption. “Artist?”

No response.

Patton frowned. He didn’t want to touch him — Logan’s comment about him being touch averse still lingered in his mind — so Patton just stepped around and stood behind the painting, waving a hand and hoping to attract his attention.

“Hey, Roman!” he said. “Artist!”

Finally, the Artist acknowledged him, in a quick “Mhm.”

“Look at me?” Patton asked.

“Mhm.”

Okay, so the Artist wasn’t paying attention. This was a really important topic, and Patton, sadly, needed his full attention. Patton grabbed his shoulders, and the Artist stiffened again. 

Careful of the painting, Patton pulled the easel back, squatting in front of the Artist so they were about equal height. 

Uh oh. The Artist looked stricken, staring at Patton with eyes as wide as the moon and a mouth slightly open, slackjawed and confused. Behind them, the Child babbled to Logan about stars while Logan responded gently about constellations. Neither seemed to know of what was going on. 

“Hey, Artist,” Patton smiled a little, trying to ease whatever tension there may be, “I’m sorry for bothering you! I just wanted to ask, um….” he bit his lip, it’s okay, just ask, “Would it be okay if Child stayed here?”

“What?!”

Hearing his name, the Child looked up. He and Logan both starred at Patton and the Artist, finally realizing that Patton had done the one explicit thing that the Artist had been adamant that no one do. 

And, well, to be fair. Patton wasn’t usually one to press boundaries. He would be okay with letting the Artist paint for however long he wanted, so long as he took healthy breaks and ate a lunch and dinner eventually. But this was a dire situation. The Child had someone hunting him! Someone who wanted to hurt him.

Letting him hide, stay out of trouble, that was the right thing to do. Roman would understand, surely.

“No,” the Artist said. 

Well.

Patton frowned, running his hands along the Artist’s upper arms and gently holding him steady. Maybe he just had to explain?

“Well,” he said, “It’s deadly outside, and we don’t want him getting hurt, right? Don’t you wanna keep him safe?”

The paintbrush and palette disappeared from the Artist’s hands as they slowly curled into fists. His lip was twitching, too, revealing a barely-contained anger. 

Patton had done the ONE thing….

The Artist sucked in a breath. “....I don’t give much of a fuck, Dad. I told you all to leave.”

Someone yanked Patton back, causing him to let go of the Artist. He turned around, ready to reprimand Logan, only to find that Logan was nowhere to be seen. 

The Child tugged Patton back a little more away from the Artist, teeth pressed together into a wide grimace. He shot Patton a small look, terrified and distressed, and pulled him toward the door.

“We’re on our way out, Arty!” the Child said, running around Patton and giving him a sharp push toward the door, “ I’m sorry, I didn’t tell Pat to say that, we’re gonna head out—”

Logan ran down the stairs, holding Patton and the Child’s cloaks in his arms. He handed the Child’s cloak to him, letting him put it on himself. 

He wasn’t entirely sure why they had to leave so soon, but after Patton said the Child’s name, he’d turned to Logan with a petrified expression and whispered that they had to leave immediately. While Logan was certain that there was more to the Artist than a quick temper, he wasn’t confident that the Artist wouldn’t lash out.

It seemed that Patton was pretty confident, though. After all, why WOULD the Artist do anything? 

He shook his head when Logan offered him his cloak and turned back to the Artist. 

“No, no we’re not leaving,” Patton marched right back to the Artist, still sitting on his stool, hands trembling in his lap. “I thought you cared about protecting everyone. Why can’t he stay?”

The Artist stood up, causing the Child to jump back in fright, though Patton didn’t flinch. He just stood nose-to-nose with the Artist, who glared right into his eyes. 

“He’s a distraction,” the Artist spoke slow, quietly, though the trembling of his hands and the twitch in his eye betrayed  It’s bad enough you’re all here. I don’t like distractions while I’m working, and you in particular keep distracting me—”

“Is that why nothing is finished?” Logan asked.

The Artist stepped back, as though he’d been slapped. Logan came up behind Patton, carefully putting a hand on Patton’s shoulder. 

Patton gave him a small smile of relief. He wasn’t sure he could argue this well enough without him. While attacking the Artist’s art probably wasn’t the best method, he was glad that the responsibility of reigning him in wasn’t all just on Patton. 

Having back up was nice.

That, and they still had to get information. Perhaps Patton’s opinion that the Child should stay here was logical and morally right, but that didn’t mean the Artist would abide by it when angry. They had to be strategic.

Logan cleared his throat, continuing with a gentle after the Artist’s lack of response. “All of your paintings. They all seem to be in some state of incompletion,” he gestured around the room, hoping to redirect the Artist’s focus. He didn’t want to come off as overly critical, though. They were wonderful, truly, but….well. You cannot blame him for having curiosities. “When you are distracted, do you not finish?” 

The Artist just kept staring at him. He didn’t move, barely breathed, mouth hanging open a tiny bit. He did seem a little slow on the uptake, with lethargically slow movements and reactions.

His shoulders slowly hiked up as he drew in a breath. Patton perked up, and Logan‘s grip on Patton tightened. 

“....Get out.”

His voice was cold as ice. A palette knife was summoned into his hand and his knuckles paled quickly from his tight grip.

Oh, dear. The Child hissed something behind the two adult Sides, but neither paid him any mind. They were acutely focused on the Artist.

“It’s an honest question,” Logan said, “I’m sorry if I offended, but—”

“I don’t have to answer it. Get out.”

Patton big his lip, eyes darting to Logan before he continued. “Roman, please—”

“I just want to create without you all getting in my fucking way all the time!” the Artist exploded. “And none of it’s good enough anyway, if it were good, I’d finish it, but nothing’s fucking good enough for you yet!”

He ground his teeth together, body stiff, hands curled at his sides. 

It was bad enough he couldn’t finish a piece at all. The art block was bad enough. The fact that parts of him wanted to kill other parts of him and wanted to kill  _ him _ him was bad enough. 

He just wanted to create and wanted it to be good enough for their astronomically high standards.

Maybe the Thief was right. Wanting only made it hurt more. 

“Roman—” Patton started again, only to be immediately cut off again by his shout.

_ “OUT!” _

The Artist’s yell was loud enough to shake the house. Or perhaps that was because he wanted them to perceive it that way.

Either way, it was clear that the atmosphere wanted them to leave, whether they got an elaboration or not. The Child grabbed Patton’s arm and, with more force than Patton knew children to have, yanked him out. “We’re leaving, Dad,” he hissed, tugging Patton along. 

Where had that outburst come from? And those tears? The Artist — he looked so upset, face twisting into picturesque disappointment and anger, lip curling and nostrils flared. 

Patton couldn’t just leave him, no, he had to talk to the Artist, something. Anything. 

The Artist jerked forward, shouting “OUT!” once more as he lifted the palette knife to point at them. 

The Child threw open the front door and pushed Patton out. There was a time and a place, and this was neither.

He motioned for Logan to follow. “Don’t make me grab you, Logic,” he snapped, half scared, half frustrated. 

Logan, blinking away his confusion, followed. 

They left the Artist alone with one hand gripping a palette knife and the other his own shirt, over his heart.


	11. how far i'll go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: panic, panic attack, crying, arguing, physical violence/punching, black eye, a Lot of self-deprecation, non-consensual hugs and cheek-kisses (idk if that's categorically non-consensual kissing, but if it irks anyone, there it is!) — if i've forgotten any, please let me know!!!
> 
> welcome to Plot Point #2, electric boogaloo!!!! i feel like there's a lot of tension building right now, but also there was A Lot of gentle and quiet hurt/comfort in the past few chapters, so we're getting into the Action!!! also the bard, i'm so happy he's finally here alskdghasldkfhasdlkf
> 
> there's a reason this is tagged with descriptions of violence, and we're finally getting to the violence!!!! yee: HAW

“‘After sunrise’ has got to be the worst time descriptor ever, and I refuse to believe Logan said that,” Virgil said.

He was sitting on the wall behind where they’d seen Bard performing the other day, legs swinging out. On his left, Deceit rolled his eyes and reiterated that, once again Virgil, yes, he did say that, I’m not lying, while on his right the Thief just snickered behind a hand.

They’d had a fairly quiet morning. The Thief had woken up first, fixed up a quick breakfast for the others, and they’d been off. If anything had changed, it was that Virgil now had a sword, a few knives hidden in his coat, and a circular shield hooked to his back. The Thief had been actually offended when he found out that the Playwright hadn’t armed him — him and Deceit got to watch him yell at the sky while they walked back into the city, shouting to no one directly that “It was REALLY irresponsible, Poindexter, you can’t just let everyone in without defense!”

Since then, though, they’d only been waiting for an hour. Then again, they’d been waiting for an hour. If the other two didn’t show up soon, the Thief said they’d have to wait for Bard to arrive (“Another Roman, and I’m not leaving him out here alone. I always check up on him to make sure he’s….still playing.”) before checking the Artist’s home. Having a plan did make Virgil feel better, no doubt, but he couldn’t help thinking about what’d happen if they found the Artist’s home ransacked. If Logan and Patton and however many Romans weren’t there.

If Dragon got them.

Virgil felt both of his hands be squeezed. “It’s going to be okay,” Deceit murmured, “Come now, Virgil.”

“Yeah,” he hissed, pulling his hand from Deceit’s grip, “It’s only been an hour. An hour Logan ‘n Patton could be in the hands of a murderer.”

“Look. If Dragon found them, we’ll go after them. It’s not that hard,” the Thief said.

At that, both Virgil and Deceit turned to him, with similar expressions of doubt. The Thief put his hands up and shrugged. “Okay, maybe easier said than done, but it will be done.”

“Besides,” Deceit turned back to Virgil, “Logan’s too smart to be captured, let alone allow Patton to be in a place of danger.”

Virgil squinted. “Well—”

“Are you going to argue that there’s a part of Roman smarter than Logan?” Deceit asked, raising an eyebrow.

Virgil shot him an angry glare and turned to the Thief, but was met with an apologetic shrug. “He’s right. That’s unrealistic as hell, and while I’m not a beacon of realism, even I wouldn’t try that shit.”

Before Virgil could respond, though, a shout from the ground drew their attention.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite one man rise in crime!”

Below them was the Roman they’d seen performing — the Bard — shielding his eyes from the sun and looking at them. He held his ukulele in his other hand, close to his side.

“Hey, Bard,” the Thief called, jumping down from the wall. “How are—”

The Bard cut him off by hugging him tight and spinning him in a circle, laughing while he shouted in surprise. In a practiced motion, the Bard spun the Thief out, then pulled him close and dipped him.

Virgil and Deceit jumped down from the wall, too, and Deceit held an arm in front of Virgil to stop him from interfering.

Because the Bard had about an inch of space between himself and the Thief, who was smiling himself. The Bard kissed his forehead with a grin. “You’re up early, usually you aren’t out of the hornet’s nest before noon,” he said, slowly letting the Thief up.

The Thief, who didn’t seem perturbed at all by the kiss, now stiffened. His eyes flicked up to Deceit and Virgil, watching with a contemplative and confused expression each, before looking back at the Bard. “Well, uh, I,” he cleared his throat, “Lets, um, say I found something more….important to deal with,” he coughed again.

“More important than annoying Dragon?” the Bard asked, raising his eyebrows with oblivious eyes locked onto the Thief, “Woah, what’d you find? Didja find what happened to Prince?”

The Thief flicked his eyes again toward Deceit and Virgil, but the Bard just kept staring at him. It wasn’t like the Bard was good at subtle hints! No, he was a man of gusto! Of bravado and extravagant displays! Maybe the Thief just saw something interesting, who knows.

No, no, now he was nodding to the left. Maybe there was something he wanted the Bard to see? The Thief was so full of subtleties, it drove him up the wall.

He raised an eyebrow, just to show the Thief that he had no idea what was happening, and the Thief jerked his thumb to the side. Alright. The Bard could understand that one. He turned..

And his jaw dropped. He covered his open mouth with both hands, ukulele in tow, and squealed. Virgil flinched backward, but Deceit just smiled.

Ah, finally some Roman mannerisms he was familiar with.

“Oh my—oh, Posiedon’s trident, it’s Tall Dark and Handsome, and my Pretty Little Liar,” the Bard cooed, stepping back into a deep bow, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you!”

Okay, maybe more flirting than Deceit was familiar with, but he could work with that.

The Bard sprang up, bouncing on his feet as he nudged the Thief with a cheeky elbow. “I knew you’d shown up in the Imagination, but I had no idea Pickpoppet over here had you hidden away in his treehouse!”

The Thief snorted, lightly smacking away the Bard’s elbow. “It was for the best, Bard, and—”

“Are you all here to watch me perform? Oh, if you aren’t too busy, that is!”

“Please—”

“ I can promise that it’ll be supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!”

“Bard—”

“Even though the sound of it is something quite atrocious!”

The Bard rambled on about the performance he had planned, which involved renditions of multiple more Disney songs. Both Virgil and Deceit were almost used to this sort of tangential thinking; Roman often displayed it. Meanwhile, the Thief lowered the hand he’d raised trying to interrupt, opting to simply cup his own forehead and shake it slowly.

“You are truly infuriating,” he grumbled.

Deceit was watching the Bard talk with a small, fond smile. He gestured to him with a hand flip. “Well, he certainly is a part of Roman.”

The Bard looked up with a blink, silencing himself while Virgil snickered. He didn’t seem embarrassed as he grinned widely and bowed again.

“In the flesh and then some! You may call me the Bard,” he stood up straight and extended a hand to shake. “It’s my pleasure.”

Virgil and Deceit shared a look, both acknowledging to each other that these formalities were getting pretty tedious, and Deceit offered his hand out first.

Instead of shaking it, though, the Bard took Deceit’s hand, bent down, and kissed the top.

Deceit pressed his lips into a line, eyes widening as his cheeks turned a brighter red. Oh. The Bard moved up, pressing two more fast kisses to the top of Deceit’s wrist before pulling back with a smile.

What was with these Romans and making him blush? Deceit probably wasn’t even worth those kisses.

Now, roll it back. He exhaled and smiled a tiny, forced smile.

Virgil chuckled again besides him, waving his hand to say “no thanks.” It seemed that he didn’t pick up on Deceit’s minor issue. And his desire for no kiss was passable to the Bard, as his eyes danced between the three of them.

“What are you all doing here?” he asked.

“Honestly, looking for you and waiting for the others to arrive,” the Thief said.

“No, no, I mean, what are they,” the Bard pointed to Virgil and Deceit, “doing in the Imagination?”

Now, the Thief sighed. He rubbed his forehead, as though dreading the Bard’s reaction.

Was he going to be that visceral? This Roman seemed chill, to Virgil, even though he was kinda loud. He glanced at Deceit to find him also looking at the Thief with thinly veiled confusion.

“They were worried about us,” the Thief mumbled, just loud enough for all three of them to hear. “They want Roman back. One piece.”

The reaction was instantaneous.

The Bard lit up, a wide smile spreading across his face, shoulders hiking up as he opened his arms. It seemed that his hair curled even more, flipping and bouncing as he danced in place.

Virgil and Deceit both took small steps back on instinct.

Oh my God, they both thought, this was going to be difficult. Virgil moved to pull his cloak around himself tighter.

Fuck, wait, the Bard was staring right at him.

“Oh, my darlings, you do love me!” the Bard shouted, dropping his ukulele and launching himself at Virgil, “Fuck yes!”

He kissed Virgil’s cheek and wrapped his arms around his neck, spinning him once. The movement was rapid enough to make Virgil shout in surprise.

Before Virgil could actually shove him off, though, he wrapped an arm around Deceit’s waist and hoisted him closer. He let go of Virgil to hug Deceit, like a monkey swinging between trees, and quickly twirled Deceit around.

He certainly was enthusiastic, peppering the both of them in tiny kisses and tight embraces.

“Roman—wait—!” Deceit yelped, clinging to the Bard to keep his footing.

As energetic as the Thief had expected. He took two steps back, opting to lean on the wall and watch the Bard gently tilt Deceit down, kiss his forehead one last time, and bounce backwards, still jogging in place just a little, making weird noises behind his hands. God, he was a primadonna.

It reminded the Thief of that Disney channel show episode, and he had to refrain from rolling his eyes. Honestly, why was Roman so annoying? It was exhausting.

Deceit caught his hat on his head, grabbing Virgil’s arm to steady himself. That was fine by Virgil, who was in the process of steadying himself as well. They held onto each other and slowly stood up again, silently agreeing to not mention each other’s bright red blushes to Roman once he was whole.

If Roman’s typical antics were a handful, then the Bard was that times ten. He giggled, eyes seeming to glitter with stars as he smiled at them both.

“Pull yourself together, Bard” The Thief said, snapping his fingers, “You’re acting like an idiot in front of them.”

And then the Bard stopped. He stepped back, towards the Thief, and turned half his body around to face him. His smile dimmed, sheepish, and he ran a hand through his hair.

“Whoops. Sorry, I, um,” he chuckled, “Well, I must have gotten carried away.”

“Yeah,” Virgil said, scowling at him as he brushed himself down, “What the hell?”

“In my defense, I’m VERY excited! You were worried about me? About me?!” the Bard covered his face again and made a sound incomprehensible to any of them.

Deceit narrowed his eyes a little as the Thief reprimanded the Bard.

Why were all the Romans so surprised that they’d come looking? At first, he’d chalked it up to the Thief and the Playwright being more reclusive parts of Roman. He wasn’t always flamboyant, as much as he’d like to act like he was, and there had been plenty of evidence that Roman also enjoyed some forms of quiet.

But here the Bard was, the loudest Roman that they’d seen, also surprised that the other Sides had been worried for him.

Was it something to do with the “Light” Sides — oh, how Deceit despised that moniker — decision to leave him alone? Or was it something else?

It made Deceit all the more worried about what the future of this little quest held.

“Hey, snake eyes, you in there?”

Deceit blinked, looking up at the Thief. He, Virgil, and the Bard were all watching him with varying levels of concern. “You zoned out,” the Thief said.

“Well,” time to cover things up, “Who wouldn’t, when listening to such a melodic voice.”

The Thief and Virgil both gave him questioning stares, but the Bard threw a hand over his mouth, hiding a blush and some giggles. Wonderful.

“Oh, I, well,” the Bard stuttered.

The Thief twisted his head, looking between him and Deceit’s smirk. He opened his mouth to say something about the blatant flattery (was Bard really that easy to win? Wait, was Roman that easy?) but, as per usual, the Bard cut him off.

“MY PRINCES—” he bolted out of the small circle, shoving between the Thief and Virgil to sprint off.

“Hypatia’s sake!” The three turned just in time to see the Bard spring himself right into a very surprise Logan’s arms. Patton and the Child were just beside him, the Child sitting on Patton’s shoulders while the moral side leaned away from the tackle while laughing.

“There you are!” Virgil called, rushing after the Bard toward them, “What held you up? I was worried as all get out!”

“Hey, kiddo!” Patton extended an arm, open for a hug, and Virgil leaned in to give him a tight squeeze. “We got held up at another Roman’s house — the, uh, Artist.”

“Oof,” the Thief murmured, keeping a fair amount of distance as he and Deceit approached.

Deceit raised an eyebrow at him. “Oof?”

He just waved a hand. Not now, he’d explain later. Deceit pursed his lips, but elected to drop it. All in due time.

Meanwhile, the Bard fixed Logan’s glasses, ignoring his surprised expression, and kissed his cheek. “Hello to you, my cerebral swain,” he cooed, sliding out of his arms and popping up on his feet.

“Bard, what’d I just say about asking for permission?” the Thief said, grabbing the Bard’s arm and yanking him back before he could accost Patton similarly.

The Bard instantly deflated, leaning his head back and sighing.

“To ask.”

“Yeah. Apologize,” the Thief pushed his shoulder.

“I would very much prefer you ask next time, and please keep in mind that I’m not fond of physical displays,” Logan said, clearing his throat and collecting himself, “That was an experience. And….’swain?’”

The Bard rubbed the back of his neck and smiled a tiny bit, embarrassed once more. “Yeah. Sorry for that,” he brightened a little more, upon hearing the term, “Yes! I thought you may like that one, Smarticle Particle.”

To that, though, Logan pivoted a hard 180 degrees and began talking to Virgil. The Bard chuckled, though he couldn’t exactly keep the pain from his voice.

Of all the people to fling yourself at, Roman, it was Logan? He was lucky that the nerd had the reflexes to catch him, and was even luckier that he didn’t hurt him. But he was so happy! And the Bard would have readily thrown himself at Patton similarly, had he not been worried about the Child falling. And had the Thief not stopped him.

As Deceit joined them and they all greeted one another, the Bard turned to Patton, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Can I hug you?” he drew out the ‘a’ in ‘Can,’ opening his arms as he did so.

“Wait, wait.”

Patton, who’d watched Logan be tackled, slowly let the Child down from his back. “Alright,” he spread his arms and a grin towards the Bard, “NOW it’s hug time!”

The Bard shouted in glee and grabbed Patton, swirling him once and picking him up. Patton laughed in his arms, hugging him back just as close, pressing their foreheads together.

It was warm, like a fire burning on his hands. The Bard didn’t want to let go. If he could get away with never having to let go of any of them, he would, because the sheer LOVE was so palpable.

That was dreadfully unrealistic, and he could almost hear the Thief chiding him, so he opted to kiss Patton’s nose and lower him slowly. “Good to see you, Dream daddy,” he purred.

Patton blushed, giggling a little at the nickname. “Good t’–Good to see you too, uh….Bard?”

The Bard laughed, giving him another squeeze before leaning back. “Yes!” he said, poised to continue.

Until a handwave cut him off. “Hey, Bard, Patton, we’re circling up,” the Thief said, motioning them closer, “Also, Patton, good to see you.”

Patton leaned closer, holding and squeezing the Thief’s arm as they formed a small circle of conversation. More pleasantries were exchanged, though smaller and faster. The Bard and Child hugged, the Thief introduced himself to Patton, Logan and Deceit exchanged what had to be the most awkward “I’m glad you’re not dead” in the history of time. After that, though, they began to discuss recent events. Logan and Patton explained how they’d been kicked from the Artist’s house — “Of course he did,” the Thief grumbled angrily, “I’ll be having words with him later” — while Virgil and talked about possibly confronting Dragon.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea,” the Child asked after they were done, voice soft.

He was being held by the Bard, snuggled into his arms and hugging the Bard’s ukulele. Both of them were watching the duo with reproachful expressions, Bard holding Child almost protectively, but the Child bearing most of the terror.

The Thief shrugged tiredly, but Virgil picked up the argument. “If we want all of Roman back — which, we do — then we’re gonna have to talk to him at least.”

“I agree,” the Bard and Child both looked over at Logan, who fixed his glasses and continued, “There is not one facet of Roman more important than another. I don’t understand what this self-splitting has done to your psyche, but we need every part to move forward, even the ones you do not desire.”

“I guess….I mean, he’s not that bad, Dragon,” the Bard puffed up his cheeks.

“But–But he’ll hurt you. He’ll hurt all of us,” the Child said, brow furrowed, “He puts the ‘evil’ in ‘he villainous.’”

“And Bard,” the Thief said, nudging him, “You saw what he did to Damsel.”

“Of course I did,” the Bard said, frown deepening. “But I don’t want to think of him as evil. A villain, yes, but evil? Are all villains evil? No. He’s just a teensy weensy bit harder to talk to.”

“Yeah! And he’s Roman, too, right?” Patton said, bobbing his head to either side, thinking, “If he’s a part of Roman, then he’s a part of our family.”

The Bard nodded to Patton. “He’s a more, er, eccentric part, yeah.”

The Thief squinted at the Bard. Virgil scooted a little closer to Deceit, who’d been watching the entire debate quietly. This was their first close up look at how the different figments of Roman interacted with each other.

Granted, these were three figments that already professed to being allies, but even that seemed like a stretch.

“How’re you so accepting of what he wants to do to us? To you, me, Child, even them,” the Thief gestured vaguely in the direction of the other Sides. “YOU’RE eccentric, but Dragon? Downright villainy.”

The tension built between them. Patton opened his mouth, hoping to maybe stop yet another argument from breaking out, but the Bard continued before he could.

One glance at the Child’s face showed that he, too, was afraid of more animosity in the group. Fighting like this was bad. It was super duper bad.

And he didn’t like it one bit.

“Because I,” the Bard pointed to his own face, set in a sly grin, “Don’t want to dislike myself. I’m wonderful! Even my flaws! If I don’t like Dragon, then that means I don’t like Roman, and I don’t want to not like Roman, because that means I don’t like a part of me! And I love every single part of me!”

There was a lot regarding ‘wants,’ Deceit noted.

That was a piece of shit sentence, Logan noted.

“Wow, Roman,” Virgil watched him with a vaguely impressed expression, “That was pretty astute for you.”

Immediately, the Bard’s tone flipped, as he smiled cheekily and tilted his head to the side. “Awh, did you just say I’m pretty and cute?”

Not a lot regarding brain power with this one, Deceit added to his mental notes. If only he could whip out his notepad and start jotting these down.

Ah, yes, wait. He could.

“....Without that digression,” the Thief put up a hand, waving it dismissively at the Bard, “Maybe he’s a part of us, yeah, but he’s that part — what’d you say, he’s the kinda outburst we internalize.”

Logan immediately turned his head towards the Thief, pointing at his chest.

“Don’t pull my words out of context. Internalizing any facet of one’s personality too much separates one’s sense of self from the thoughts generated by that facet, making it much more difficult to introspect,” he gestured around to himself, Patton, Virgil, and Deceit, “Also, there are more characters than just you here, now. The odds may have shifted.”

“As though you know much about introspection,” Deceit murmured, not taking his eyes off of his notepad. He continued louder, now closing it and looking up — might as well bring up the clear elephant in the room. “Either way, having all of us in the Imagination is doing WONDERS to Thomas’ thought process. We’re going to have to get Roman back as soon as possible, and if that means we need to march right up to the Dragon and kick his ass, then I propose we do that.”

Virgil frowned at him. “Wait, wait, hold the phone — how long have we been in here? Logan,” he turned to him, “What time is it?”

“It’s approximately 10:17 a.m. on the day after we originally arrived, and I do not have a phone on my person currently,” Logan said, tilting his head.

“What?!” the Bard shouted, gripping the Child tighter, “It’s already–Oh, fuck, it’s only been that much?”

All three of the Romans seemed to jerk back, and then surge forward.

Deceit, on the side, slowly covered his mouth, watching Logan with a stricken expression as he continued to explain. They’d been here for far too long.

“It’s been a reasonable amount of time since we entered. What’s wrong?”

“No, no,” the Child waved his hands now, “It’s just….the Imagination’s moving normally.”

Now it was the four other Sides’ turn to look at the three Romans confused. “What do you mean, moving normally?” Patton asked. “Does it not do that?”

“I mean,” the Child patted his cheeks in thought, then snapped his fingers. “You know how, when you daydream —”

“No.”

“Nope.”

“Uh uh.”

“No.”

The Child stared at them, mouth slightly open and brow pinched, absolutely confounded. Then he smacked his own forehead and groaned. Of course the other Sides didn’t daydream, no, they just sorta stared off into the distance and thought their thoughts. He was the one with daydream mode!

“You all should form a barbershop quartet, because you hit that mark perfectly,” the Bard mumbled, looking toward the Thief.

“What,” the Thief put a hand up, between the Bard and Child, and the other Sides, “We’re trying to get to, is that the Imagination usually moves faster than the outside. For all of us? We’ve lived a week.”

“A WEEK?” Virgil shouted.

“Mhm,” the Bard hummed.

“Interesting. That makes more sense, given that you all have established routines, homes, and roles. For the outside, it has been approximately 19 hours since we first opened Roman’s room’s door.”

“Holy shit — that’s a long time.”

“And all in nine chapters!”

“Like I said, it seems DEFINITELY safe for all of us to be here.”

“Ix-nay on the fourth wall breaks, Patt, I already warned Logan.”

“What do you mean?”

“Awh, alright.”

“I mean….imagine—”

“Done,” the three Romans chorused.

“ARG,” Deceit wrung his hands in the air for a second — WHY did they seem to share ONE BRAIN CELL, SWEET FUCK, he just wanted to make ONE POINT THIS WHOLE TIME —  then exhaled, “Okay. Consider. If you’re trying to talk to someone, is it better to meet them face to face, or shout at them from behind a wall?”

Everyone turned to Deceit now, with similarly confused expressions.

“Um. It depends on the kind of talk we’re having,” the Thief said, squinting at him, “What kinda talk is it?”

“It’s just a talk, any talk,” Deceit waved his hands flippantly, “Anything! You’re just trying to be heard—”

All three of the Roman figments stiffened, and Deceit’s point was proven. The Child covered his mouth, the Bard let out a tiny squeak, and the Thief’s hands jerked toward his hidden weapons. Deceit stepped back, clapping once in celebration, though the matter was far from ideal. “Wait, what?” Virgil asked, looking between them all.

Slowly, they all looked up, at the sky.

“Oh, fuck,” the Thief murmured.

“What is it?” Logan snapped.

“Guys,” Logan and Virgil looked at Patton now, who was now also staring at the sky, hands shaking, “Thomas needs us.”

Oh, fuck.

Logan felt it next, the regular tug of Thomas trying to summon him into reality. The hairs on the back of his neck stood as the sensation came to an abrupt halt, as though hitting a wall. A yelp from Virgil indicated that he, too, had felt his summons.

This was about to become chaos, he thought.

“He cannot summon us through the Imagination,” Logan said, looking at the Thief — the most reasonable one, in his mind, “How do we exit?”

The Bard and the Child looked at him, but the Thief just kept glaring at the sky. And it took him a few seconds of tense silence to respond.

“You can’t.”

The pause that followed was even more tense.

What did that mean, they couldn’t? They weren’t allowed to?

What did that mean for Thomas?

What if Thomas didn’t feel them at all?

“What does that mean?” Virgil hissed, “Thief, what the fuck?!”

“You’re too far into his mind, in the Imagination. We’re closer to the Subconscious than he can reach,” the Bard murmured.

“What—But, wait,” Patton tapped the Bard’s arm, voice escalating in pitch and betraying his worry, “What does Roman do when Thomas summons him and he’s in here? Isn’t this just an extension of his room?”

“Usually we’d step out’ve the Imagination ourselves and let him pull,” the Child picked up, looking at Patton with wide, worried eyes, “This isn’t our room. The Imagination, it’s not our room, there’s usually a distinct border. But–But–”

“But?!” Deceit snapped.

“But WE can’t leave,” the Thief finished, “Playwright tried getting out earlier, but the Imagination’s locked down and destroyed our room. The, uh, this whole splitting thing, it’s too chaotic, so we’ve been pushed even further back into the Subconscious. We need a single Roman so we get a room again, but we don’t have a single Roman.”

He looked around at the other Sides, then winced. No one was happy about that information; Logan was watching him with a slightly open mouth, working through the logistics of this new information; Deceit’s expression was guarded, though one hand rested on his chin; Virgil looked downright murderous, glaring venomously at him; Patton was about two seconds away from crying.

Even the Bard and Child were watching him with distaste, and sympathy. The Child’s lip was wobbling — goddamnit, the Thief didn’t want him to cry — but the Bard had something deeper, something a little more….angry, in his eyes, as he shifted his hold on the Child.

“....Well,” Logan murmured, “That is. Worrying.”

“And that’s an understatement,” Deceit said.

“That’s why I was upset to see you all in here. Don’t get me wrong, love that you care,” the Thief gestured to each Side as he spoke, “But Thomas’ Logic, Morality, Deception, and Anxiety are all behind a veil. Or, well, wall,” he waved his hand toward Deceit, “Like you were trying to say.”

“And he probably can’t feel any Creativity,” the Bard slowly set the Child down as he trailed off, “This is….”

“Okay, fuck,” Patton put a hand to his forehead, then covered his mouth as he swore again, doing his best to censor himself and fighting against the rising concern and, okay, fine, absolute panic, “Goodness gracious, what are we going to do?”

Virgil was silent, running his hands through his hair and cupping the back of his neck. The anxiety, though, was coming off of him in waves. To be frank, it was coming off all of them, the entire square dripping with intense fear and panic. The gravity of the situation was finally sinking in, and each of them grew more stressed as they felt Thomas attempt a second round of summoning tugs.

Well, except for Deceit. Thomas had still never tried to summon him, but he was definitely examining everyone else as they jumped, as though pulled on a string, only for that same string to be cut off by the Imagination. They should have asked more. Deceit definitely dabbled in the Imaginative process, without Roman’s knowledge. He’d concocted some of his best fabrications in this realm.

The others must not have known that any of them could access it. That they didn’t technically need Roman to oversee things. Deceit didn’t know how he controlled it, or what his actual power over it was, but it was much more comprehensive than anyone else’s. But he didn’t own it.

The lack of knowledge would be everyone’s downfall, here, he thought bitterly.

Patton made a small whimpering noise when he felt his tug and squatted down. The Child hugged him, and Patton hugged him back, both wallowing in a deep sense of dread and attempting to comfort each other.

“We need to find a way out,” Logan said with finality, grasping his own arms, “We need to talk to Dragon, find Damsel, find Prince, obtain Roman, and flee.”

It made sense; the logical solution to this problem would be to assemble Roman as quickly as possible, before all of their absences made a lasting impact on Thomas in the real world.

“That’s pretty unrealistic, teach,” the Bard said, covering his eyes and rubbing his cheeks.

“What would you know about realism, Bard,” the Thief snapped, shooting him a glare.

Tensions riding higher and higher. Virgil stepped back and walked to the wall, leaning against it, doing his best to focus on something else. The clouds in the Imagination sure were something. They were distinctly cloud-like, but all seemed to have different shapes, shapes that they were actually supposed to take.

That one looked like a cat. That one looked kinda like a frying pan.

That one looked like a car. Like two cars on top of each other.

A ringing noise filled his ears.

Don’t think about the car crash Thomas could get into without Logan or himself there to help him drive. Don’t think about the possibly callous truths Thomas would spill without Patton or Deceit. Don’t think about the encroaching video filming that Thomas was definitely behind on, now, without Roman.

Virgil closed his eyes and exhaled, trying to control his breathing. The argument before him, which he was trying his best to ignore, only grew in volume.

“How long do YOU think it’ll take for them to convince Dragon? We can’t just leave him, after all!” the Bard snapped.

Having picked up his ukulele again, he was now waving it, swiping it through the air as one would a sword. The Thief kept a safe distance, however, but gestured just as vigorously.

“Damnit, Bard, I don’t know! A while?!” he said.

“So no one’s leaving here ANY time soon!”

“Guys,” the Child said, trying to get between the two adults, “Please don’t—”

“Pipe down, pipsqueak,” the Thief grunted, taking a step toward the Bard, “And stop waving that shit around, you dramatic dunce, you’re going to hurt someone.”

The Bard hugged his ukulele before the Thief could grab it, hissing quietly. “How long is a while, then, Royal Bandit?”

“I–Just–Look, I don’t KNOW—”

“Then STOP acting like you know everything!” the Bard suddenly shouted, throwing his arms open in a newfound anger, “Answering everyone’s questions like you’re some kind of epilogue! Like you know more about Roman than the rest of us!”

Logan covered his mouth, looking between the Bard and Thief like he expected a fight to break out. Virgil was leaning on the wall, Deceit was — holy shit, was Deceit taking _notes_?! At this point, Logan was the only one paying attention to this developing scuffle, because Patton and the Child were comforting each other in the corner.

He wasn’t paying attention to what the Thief said, nor what the Bard said in response, but it resulted in the Bard being tackled to the ground and punched by the Thief.

That very much drew his attention. Logan shouted, “HEY,” and went to pull the Thief off of the Bard.

The Thief was now on the ground, the Bard pinning him down. He had his hands balled and pulled back, one eye already red and swelling, but his fist stopped. “You’re so SELFISH,” he shouted, still unable to throw a punch.

Deceit got there before Logan, grabbing the Bard’s pulled back arm and yanking him away. The Thief darted after them, and Logan grabbed the arm he was raising, shouting over him to stop, stop fighting, god damnit!

He would have pulled himself clear out of Logan’s hold had Virgil not come to help, grabbing the Thief’s other arm and yanking him backwards. “Stop fighting, you’re both being idiots,” Virgil roared, double-voice unnaturally deep and echoing across the empty towns’ square.

Upon hearing that, both the Thief and Bard began making excuses.

“You can’t honestly think—you KNOW I would never be intentionally mean to Robin Dud—”

“Yeah, well, Marvelous Misadventure over here should have stayed in his lane—”

“STOP!”

All of the adults froze, turning to look at the Child. His hands were balled up in his cloak, lip trembling as he defiantly glared at them. Patton was knelt beside him and now looking back and forth between him and the adult Sides.

“I–I want ROMAN back!” he shouted, “So you need to STOP fighting! Please, it–it never gets us anywhere!”

The Bard’s shoulders fell, and Deceit slowly loosened his hold. He hadn’t meant to...oh, dear, god, he’d hurt the Thief.

The Thief, however, just tensed more. The Child thought they could bring Roman back? With everyone around, watching their every move, judging them? Taking advantage of their naïvety — THE CHILD’S naïvety?

Logan and Virgil gripped tighter when he took a step towards the Child, who didn’t move, face set in anger. Patton held his hand as the Thief took one more step forward.

His expression was venomous, brow pinched, lip curled into a snarl. He turned a little and yanked his arm out of Logan’s hold, then out of Virgil’s, and brushed himself down. As he did so, though, his hands shook.

“You know Roman’s not coming back, not how we were before. Get over it,” he spat. It hurt to say, like the words burned his tongue, but he couldn’t stand the lies anymore.

The Child sniffed. He looked down.

Patton immediately swooped in, whispering soft, comforting words to him. It did sting. He wanted to be whole again. Patton took his hands and he yanked them out of his hold, squatting down and curling up on himself, letting the weak sobs shake his body.

“Thief,” the Thief stepped back, rage still drawn in his eyes.

The Bard had black mascara lines trailing down his face, circling around his left eye in what would soon turn into a large bruise. His lip shook, but he kept his mouth pursed in quiet defiance as he stared down the Thief.

They got on well, usually. But there were always small arguments here and there. “Stop being so mean,” he whispered, fighting the urge to wipe his face, “You want Roman back, too. I know you want.”

The Thief met his gaze with a level one, even more angered.

The Bard hoped for an apology. Hoped the Thief would understand that his own self-hatred was holding them all back.

Instead, though, the Thief cocked an eyebrow. “Talk about wants. Do you really want the others to see you sobbing like a mess?” he whispered, voice dripping with malice. “Some performer.”

That was a low blow. The Bard’s shoulders hitched and he immediately ducked away, hiding his face in his hands.

He was crying. That was right. He shouldn’t be crying — STUPID — he would usually act his way out of this situation — PATHETIC — but why the crying?!

The anger he’d felt earlier melted away into terror. The others would see this. They’d see him crying. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t want them to see, see the damage, but oh my God did the Bard not want them to see. Immediately, he spun around, hoping to hide.

He turned right into someone, who put their hands on his shoulders. It didn’t matter to him where he hid his face, though, so he pressed straight into whoever was holding him.

“Bard—” it was Deceit, apparently.

It was Deceit who he cut off with a muffled “just let me hide” and a loud sob. Deceit slowly placed a hand on the Bard’s back, watching him for a moment before looking up at the Thief. His eyes narrowed into an angry scowl.

The Thief took a step back.

It dawned on him, just then, that he’d made the Bard cry. That had never happened before. They’d argued, sure, they had contradicting viewpoints. But he had never….

It was surreal, seeing himself cry. The Thief wanted to apologize. He felt a throbbing in the back of his head; it was like the spotlights were too bright and he was trapped center stage.

He looked back and found the Child dwarfed under Patton’s cloak, pressed against the moral side’s chest. Who was glaring absolute daggers at him. He’d made the Child cry, judging by how much the boy was trembling. To be honest, the Thief had expected this one, was surprised it hadn’t happened earlier. He just didn’t expect it to hurt so much to see the fruits of his labor. The Child turned, peeking one tear-stained, puffy eye at him.

Deceit was glaring at him, Patton was probably glaring at him, he could feel Logan and Virgil angry behind him.

He wanted to get off the stage.

Of course they were angry, you’d just made the best parts of you cry. You weren’t supposed to make yourself cry.

“Thief,” Virgil’s voice was dark behind him.

He wanted to be alone.

The Thief sprinted away, down into an alley and out of sight.

“THIEF,” Logan shouted as he disappeared around the bend.

The Child tore away from Patton. He couldn’t let him leave like this. This couldn’t be happening! Not Thief, and not Bard, and not in front of everyone else! They had to get Roman TOGETHER—

“He’s–He’s–THIEF,” the Child shouted, fists pressing down as a new bout of panic overtook him, “THIEF, COME BACK—”

“Kiddo,” Patton stood up, to calm him, to hold him again, something, anything.

Instead of going toward him, though, the Child took off running as well, in the direction the Thief had gone. Whatever the Child lacked in height and stride, he made up for in adrenaline, and he disappeared as well in a second.

“CHILD,” Patton shouted, moving to run after him, only to be pushed back by

Logan’s coat dropped away — needless drag in the momentum of running — as he chased after the Thief and Child. Patton caught the coat and starred as Logan grabbed the wall and chased after them both.

A sob from behind him drew his attention back. The Bard was still crying into Deceit’s chest. Virgil was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he’d chased after the other two, too?

Oh, this was all a disaster.


	12. let it go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: bruises and black eyes, references to imprisonment, food/food mention — i dont think there's much in this chapter, but if i missed anything, please let me know!!
> 
> WELCOME TO PINING, MY FRIENDS!! WE'VE REACHED: LEVELS OF SHIP !!! i thought y'all would want a Soft Chapter after that series of arguments but, sad to say, even when being soft, the sanders sides are abysmal at communication. they're getting better, but jesus Christ. 
> 
> also holy Shit is it hard to manage a lot of characters— because everyone mentioned here isn't going to be reoccurring, i'm not tagging them AS characters (if i should, please let me know!!) but :
> 
> Characters: Deceit, Patton, the Playwright, the Artist, the Bard, Sleep (Remy), Dad Guy, Teacher Guy

This was very much not Deceit’s forte. He ran his hand through the Bard’s hair for the umpteenth time, shooting Patton a terrified expression. Patton was on the Bard’s other side, arms wrapped around his waist, head resting on his shoulder.

“You’re okay, Roman,” he whispered, again, “You’re okay.”

The trio had been standing in a weird multi-hug for nearly ten minutes, ever since the Thief absconded. Patton figured it’d be safer to stay with Deceit and the Bard; he was more accustomed to seeing Roman cry, sad to say, but it was still only a handful of times. He did know that Deceit was very much not equipped to handle situations like this, though, and, well. He didn’t exactly trust Deceit to not make things worse.

He wasn’t, though, so Patton was pretty happy. The Bard had even finished crying a few minutes ago. That wasn’t the issue. He just refused to let up from where he was pressed into Deceit’s chest, breathing slow and quiet.

It wasn’t like Deceit minded too much. It was a little annoying. Just a little. But it was also comforting. He tried his best to not look at Patton’s little glances, but Deceit knew his face was a little red. He didn’t want to let go of Roman. Not when he was this close, also comforted in his hold.

Despite Deceit’s strategy of letting go of his crush, he was almost falling faster. He pressed his lips to the Bard’s head and flicked his eyes up at Patton when he began talking again.

“You’re gonna be okay. We’ve just gotta get goin’ now.”

In all honesty?

The Bard had long since calmed down. He was now drunk on happiness. Yeah, sure, he was still really pissed off at the Thief, he’d ruined his make up, punched him in the face, made the Child cry, generally put a damper on the whole situation, but that was to be a problem for another day. The arms wrapped around his waist, the body he was snuggled into, the hand that was running through his hair, it all made him feel so secure. So _loved_.

He didn’t think Deceit was much of a physical person, but after this? The Bard would have to remember to go to the snake more often for cuddles.

He closed his eyes again and inhaled slowly.

Patton always smelt like cookies. Chocolate chip cookies and occasionally chai, depending on what he’d baked recently. Sometimes of just sugar.

Deceit smelt a little more just like a person, yeah, but the scent was carefully interlaced with hints of lavender and jasmine. Did Deceit wear cologne or something? Maybe he had a self-care routine. The Bard would also have to remember to have Roman ask Deceit if he wanted to do masks and manicures together.

The could just not follow the Thief. The Bard could invite Patton and Deceit to his home, hidden away amongst the pages of this story they’d written, watch a movie and bundle under some blankets together. He could just take the time and space to be content. He could take in the pleasures of life!

But, alas, it was curtains for those dreams.

“Alright, Padre, I’m good. I’m gucci,” the Bard murmured, “It’s just so nice to be held. King Cobra, honey, were you always this warm. And you’re so lovely, Patt-puff, I could fall asleep right here.”

Patton snorted, catching the briefest glimpse of Deceit’s bright red face. “You can have all the snuggles you want later, kiddo,” he patted the Bard’s chest again, “You just gotta—”

“Wait.”

The change was immediate. The Bard stood upright, pulling his face out of Deceit’s chest and turning his head around. “Someone’s singing.”

Patton and Deceit shared a confused frown. Faintly, they could hear a voice, far, far away, but growing louder.

_“For years, I’ve roamed these empty halls~!”_

“Yeah,” the Bard tapped Deceit’s back and pulled away, both other Sides letting go finally.

There was still mascara dried around his face, and the eye that’d been punched was swelling and angry red, but the Bard didn’t seem to care. Patton rubbed his arms, missing the warmth and scolding himself internally for wanting something so unrealistic. He nudged Deceit, who was grumbling and stretching his arms, and both looked up.

In the Bard’s hands was the ukulele, forgotten in the earlier argument, and he twirled it before lifting it to his chest. Strumming a few precise chords, he continued the song, like a bird returning a call.

 _“Why have a ballroom with no balls~!”_ he twirled in place.

He sure seemed happier now. Patton smiled, watching him perform, and rested one of his hands on his cheek.

Roman was just so full of life, always. It was astounding.

Wait, the Bard was moving. Patton blinked, looking up to find Deceit watching the Bard, mesmerized as well.

….Ah.

So Deceit liked him, too?

That’d complicate things. Deceit and Roman were a little friendlier, and Patton definitely didn’t want to get in the way of anything, if it made them both happy. If there was anything. Of course there was something. Deceit and Roman were both so charming, how couldn’t there be something? That’d be like giving someone chocolate without the flowers on Valentines day!

_“Finally they’re opening up the ga~ates~!”_

Distantly, they heard someone echo the same line, getting closer. It was the Roman version of echolocation.

Oh. What if Deceit’s story about Roman and the pit was just a cover up for him being in Roman’s room? What if they’d been together?

Patton shook his head. _Imagining_ worries like that was just gonna get his head spun in a tizzy. He chuckled to himself at his pun, though gained no mirth from it, and tugged Deceit’s hand.

“C’mon, we’ve gotta follow,” he said.

Deceit blinked, looking at Patton, then back at the Bard, who’d already dance-walked his way halfway down the street. “Ah, of course,” he hurried after the Bard, faster.

He didn’t want Patton to say anything about the staring and, frankly, Patton didn’t want to say anything either. Nor his own disappointment of missing them both.

 _“There’ll be actual, real-life people_ ~ _”_

The Bard strummed, twisting down a road, and Deceit and Patton followed.

They were probably being led to another Roman, since they could make out his voice as it grew louder. Were there any more Romans, though? Or, well, any new ones.

_“It’ll be totally strange!”_

The other singer was just behind a corner.

_“Wow, am I so ready for this change~!”_

“Will you cut it out! It’s bad enough we’re out in public,” the Artist grumbled, fiddling with the sleeves of his hoodie, “And now you’re drawing everyone’s attention.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is my voice bothering you?” the Playwright shot back, bumping his hip against the Artist’s as he shouted, _“‘Cause for the first time in forever~! There’ll be music, there’ll be light!”_

Deceit and Patton blinked, watching the two bicker as they walked closer. Neither of them seemed very scared of the world around them; in fact, both were looking around at the scenery, as though noticing it for the first time. While the Artist was trying to hide, his hood up and everything, the Playwright was walking around with a coat slung over his shoulders and otherwise in the same outfit they’d seen him in the other day.

The Bard had stopped just around the bend, standing in the pathway and bouncing on his feet with an excited grin, as though waiting for them to notice him.

“Uh, yeah, a little. Shut up.”

“I, wh—” the Playwright’s singing screeched to a halt as he glared at the Artist. “How?!”

“Sounds too much like my voice.”

“We are the same person, you dunce, how—wait,” the Playwright looked up and squinted, “Oh, it’s Bard.”

The Bard struck a pose, pointing his ukulele into the sky like a sword. “It sure is! It’s been so long, Playwright, Artist!” he dashed forward, ignoring the Artist’s shouts of “NO” and the Playwright’s confused spluttering as he hugged both with his arms, “I’ve missed you both so dearly!”

He spun in a circle once before pulling away, smoothing their sides down with a hand. He then leaned forward and pecked their cheeks, one after another, shocking them both just enough that neither pointed out his black eye.

This again? It was much too high energy for Deceit, not as he had to study this...what, fifth Roman? Fourth? How many had he met, by now? Jesus, how many were there. He slunk back, behind Patton, letting the moral side do the talking.

“Good to see you again, Playwright! You too, Artist,” Patton smiled at the Artist, who flinched back and tugged the side of his hood.

Patton wasn’t about to bring up the fight from earlier that morning. The Child said, on their way out, that the Artist didn’t have much outside his art. Maybe it wasn’t good for him to be yelling at them, it was definitely upsetting. And Patton was definitely hurt. A little betrayed. A little confused. But that didn’t mean Patton would be angry. He didn’t hold grudges very well.

“Um,” the Artist looked down, twisting his foot against the cobblestone path. He couldn’t, in his right conscious, not apologize immediately. “Yeah. Dad, I just–I’m really sorry about this morning. I over reacted, and I shouldn’t have snapped at you and Logan and Child. I’m, uh, it was dumb. I’m sorry.”

There it was. Out in the open.

The Artist didn’t want his perfection at the expense of love.

A hand rested on his shoulder and he twitched. It felt almost numb, like television static. He looked up to see Patton smiling widely at him, almost beaming. “You’re not dumb for having your own boundaries and caring about what you make. Yeah, it was….” his smile faltered slightly, reminded of how terrified he’d been that the Artist would actually stab them with a palette knife, “I can’t say it’s okay. But thank you for apologizing, and I’m sorry Logan and I made you uncomfortable.”

….The Artist really hadn’t expected that. His cheeks tinged with a bit of a blush as he looked down again, still fiddling with his hood.

Patton always knew what to say.

“I don’t wanna just _brush_ over this issue.”

The Artist closed his eyes and exhaled. Patton chuckled to himself, but watched the Artist closer. Um. Maybe he didn’t understand?

Patton didn’t want to actually offend him, not right after that apology.

“Get it? Like a paint br—”

“Patton. Darling. While I appreciate the sentiment, I must admit that our relationship is a,” the Artist opened one eye, a tiny smile growing, “Work in progress.”

The Bard and Patton both hooted, the Bard plucking his ukulele once. “Good one!” Patton patted the Artist’s shoulder, “Thought I was gonna start crying there for a second, but I’m glad that was a pun, too!”

“They’re ridiculous,” the Playwright murmured.

“He’s you,” Deceit gestured to the Artist, then to the Bard. “And so’s he.”

“My cross to bear, I suppose,” the Playwright said with a tired shrug.

They’d both stepped back when the Artist apologized, leaning on a wall and watching the scene. It felt like a personal moment of reflection, in all honesty. And they didn’t have the lack of apprehension that the Bard displayed, listening in and looking between the two.

Deceit exhaled, leaning back. So Patton was bonding with yet another figment. Big whoop. No water off his scales, no sir. He turned his head, lazily looking around

Hang on. Those men were guards.

Alarms blared in his head as he reached over to the Playwright. “Guards,” he hissed.

A quiet tongue click signified that the Playwright saw them. “Patton, Artist, Bard, we need to go,” he moved toward the group.

The Bard looked back, eyes widening as the guards began marching towards them. “Son of Hephaestus.”

The ukulele disappeared from his hands as he grabbed Patton with and the Artist with the other, tugging them along. The street was populated enough, characters and people walking around, but they were parting for the guards like a predator through a school of fish. Where were they supposed to run to? The Bard knew the city well enough, but all of the maneuvers he used to escape danger wouldn’t work with such a long procession. Not to mention that the Playwright and Artist had never been in the town. In an altercation, none of them would stand a chance; all the real fighters had left.

Patton winced. What were they gonna—

“Hey, babes, lookie here!”

“Oh, thank fucking Pollock,” the Artist breathed. “It’s our idiot.”

Patton and Deceit both snapped around, looking forward. There was Thomas. Not. Not Thomas. No, it was one of his characters, wearing a black leather jacket and a messenger bag, holding a half-full Starbucks venti cup with some unknown iced drink within. Somehow, the paper labeling him as “Sleep” was still firmly taped to his chest despite being held up by a single, half-inch piece of scotch tape. But, you know. Big mood.

He waved them forward again from the doorway he was standing in. “C’mon already, we don’t have all day,” Sleep chirped again, waving a little faster.

You know what? Deceit was going to question this one. He’d been through a lot, this past day. Roman wanted to play a medieval theme, but had random modern appliances strewn about? Yeah, he’d accept that. Virgil throttled him? Sure, yeah, that would happen, that was still within the last 24 hours.

But this?

“Hey, Sleepytime Tea,” the Bard hummed, pecking Sleep’s cheek as he ducked past. “Thank you for the rescue!”

Deceit pointed at Sleep. “That. Is. One of our characters.”

Patton grinned, holding his other hand and pulling him along. “Mhm! Child said they’re all around the Imagination. Ooh, I’m excited to meet him!”

Oh, yeah, that was super explanatory! That solved ALL of Deceit’s problems! That made total and complete sense!

“Sleep,” the Playwright greeted, nodding to him as he slipped past.

Deceit was going to go absolutely feral one of these days.

Sleep tilted his sunglasses and grabbed Deceit’s back. “Let’s go, girls, into the lil’ house.”

“Remy,” the Artist murmured, pulling Patton in.

Sleep nodded to him as well, shoving Deceit into the room and closing the door. He threw two locks, then spun around to lean his back against it.

All five of them watched, varying levels of panic on their faces, while Sleep took a long sip of his coffee. They could definitely hear the guards interrogating someone outside, so it wouldn’t be long until they were approached.

“Are we gonna—” the Bard began, only to be silenced by Sleep raising his hand.

He pulled the straw away from his lips and exhaled.

“Oh my God,” Deceit mumbled, “And I thought Roman was dramatic. Holy shit, you’re a character.”

“Oh, honey, you haven’t seen anything yet,” Sleep lowered his sunglasses and winked.

He fixed them, raising his drink to behind the group, further into the building. “Alright, lets go. You all, like, super do not want to run into those guys.”

Sleep led the way. The room they’d entered into was a large foyer, to a house but not. He led them down the hall, up some stairs, up some more stairs, and then out into a bridge connecting this building to the next.

The Playwright nudged the Bard, once they were out on the bridge, and pointed silently at his eye.

That was right, the black eye and smudged make up was still clear as day. He couldn’t be having that. The Bard nodded and pressed a hand to his face. The make up vanished, reappearing as though it’d never been smudged with his tears. Carefully, he also pressed onto the bruise, and the skin all sank back in and flattened out into regularity.

It was best to not show his damage. Bad enough that he’d cried in front of the other Sides. He wasn’t about to walk around with an actual wound. It would bruise over regardless, there wasn’t anything he could do about that, but Roman didn’t want them to see him as anything other than, well. That depended on the Roman. The Bard didn’t want them to see him as anything other than beautiful.

Patton and Deceit didn’t notice. That was fine, perfect on all three Romans’ accounts. They followed right behind Sleep, the other three trailing at the rear. They’d already seen most of the Imagination, having been there when it was built (though building and navigating were two different skills); for the other two, everything was starkly new, even Sleep.

The Imagination did have more structure than they’d seen the other day. Arches, bridges, buildings that looked more defined.

Something certainly changed in the world. Maybe it was the same thing that caused the Imagination to have a regular day/night cycle? Deceit pursed his lips and summoned his notebook again, jotting down some notes. A curious world indeed.

Meanwhile, Patton was just getting excited. It was Sleep! He was an older character than, well, Patton! Granted, Patton wasn’t exactly a character, that was more so the length of time he’d been in front of the camera. But he could still remember the day when Roman pitched him — a sassy Sue, dressed to the sassy nines and going out to fun sassy parties while getting no sleep whatsoever. Logan might have thought it was on the nose to just tape a piece of paper to his shirt, but, hey, it worked!

“You’re Sleep, right? It’s really nice to meet you,” Patton said, bounding a little closer.

Sleep glanced back at him with a small smile and waved two fingers, a lazy salute. “Right back at you, Patton. Heard you’re a ball of punny sunshine — that’s the Morali-tea, sis.”

Ah, well, his reputation precedes him. Patton laughed, holding the wall, and Sleep grinned. “That’s a good one!” he covered his mouth and rubbed his cheeks a little, continuing. “Where’re we headed? Ooh, and also, do you….have any other name? Than Sleep?”

“Nah, nowhere in particular,” Sleep waved his hand dismissively, “And kinda? Emile calls me Remy. So does the fandom.”

“I think the fandom coined that one,” Deceit said, “A pleasure as well, Remy.”

Sleep put up a peace sign in greetings. “Yep. If you wanna go by names, then it’s, like, definitely all good to call me Remy,” he shrugged. “Either works. What can ya do.”

What can you do indeed. “Alrighty, Remy, you didn’t answer my first question though! I don’t think we’re just going to nowhere,” Patton picked up the conversation again.

“Oh, that. Right now we’re just walking around until I get the all clear.”

“The all clear,” the Playwright repeated, eyebrow raised.

“Mhm,” Remy took another sip of his drink and shrugged, “There’s a Starbucks down the hall if you nerds wanna get drinks, too.”

He pointed down a hall and — wait, where in the blazes were they?! Deceit stopped focusing on Remy’s back and looked around.

At the moment, they were in what looked like it could be a church, with stained glass windows and a high vaulted ceiling, save for the fact that it had no pews and was more like a crossroads. Some people walked past, shuffling around in the sides. Some of them looked like Thomas, actually. Possibly characters from other vines? Not all of them were marked with signs so clear as Remy’s.

It seemed that the Starbucks idea had been shot down, because Remy shrugged and led them to the left. As soon as they turned, though, his phone buzzed.

 _“You’re in my world now, not your world~ And I’ve got friends on the o—”_ Remy held the phone up to his ear, “Hey, girl, what’s up?”

He held up his drink, stopping the rest of the entourage, and nodded his head. “Mhm. Sounds gucci, I’ll bring these bitches back ‘round. See you in five,” he hung up quick and slid his phone back into his pocket.

Remy pivoted on his heel, facing the group once more with a broad smile. All his dramatics really reminded Patton of Roman, which was making him kind of sad. He missed his energy.

The Bard’s hand nudged Patton’s subtly, and they laced their hands together while Remy began explaining. “That’s the signal, back around this way!”

“Wait, are we walking all the way back?” the Artist asked, anger mounting in his tone, “Remy, you can’t be serious. Can’t we go to Emile’s office or something?”

“Nah, nah, I’m dropping you all off somewhere else. Emile’s got appointments all day today, anyway,” Remy shrugged, “If you wanted to hang with him so bad, you shoulda left your house.”

The Playwright snickered behind a hand, and the Artist elbowed him in the side. “Now, now, no fighting,” Patton said, eager to break up another dispute before it began, “I’m glad you’re out now.”

To that, though, the Artist just pulled his hood tighter around his head and mumbled incoherently. That was okay, it diffused the tension! Better awkward silences and mumblings than any actual physical fighting.

He didn’t even want to think of the implications of the Thief punching the Bard. What was that, Roman punching himself? Why would he be so okay with that?

Like, Patton knew. He’d been upset with himself since they met with the Playwright at the very, very, very beginning. He should have known Roman was self-conscious. It wasn’t the best kept secret.

Agh, he promised himself that he wouldn’t think about it! They were going to get Roman back! It was going to be okay, gosh darned it!

“Patton,” Deceit’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts, “Come now.”

Deceit carefully touched Patton’s free hand, wrapping his fingers around Patton’s.

The Bard was right, Patton decided right then and there. Deceit was surprisingly warm.

Patton gave his hand a squeeze, turning to him with a smile. “Thanks,” his voice was quiet, just for the two of them.

Deceit, human-side-of-face lightly flushed, returned the smile. But why would Deceit be blushing at him? Patton’s mind trailed off, just as Remy stopped the group yet again.

“Alright, we’re he~ere!” he sang out the word “here,” throwing open a door.

The reaction was instantaneous.

Patton lifted a hand, pointing fingers directly with the man standing in the opposite doorway, holding two pizza boxes and wearing the same blue polo, grey sweater, and khaki pants that he usually donned. The man dropped the pizzas onto the table besides himself and pointed as well.

“Oh, fucking hell,” Deceit groaned.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” the Bard fist pumped into the air.

Dad Guy smiled first. “I think I need new prescriptions! You’ve got me seeing double!”

A laugh from the kitchen indicated that he wasn’t alone. Patton grinned back, shooting Dad Guy some finger guns. “You can try mine! My prescriptions are Patton-edly perfect!”

“Awh, c’mere kiddo, great to meet you!”

“‘Kiddo?’ Haven’t you felt my shirt? It’s all Dad material right here.”

“The only material you’re gonna need is some new material! Can’t go around reusing old jokes!”

“Well, an old man’s gotta have old jokes! Double the puns and double the Dad!”

Remy patted Deceit’s back and gave him a sympathetic shrug. “I’ve gotta dip, gotta meet with some other people around the town. You know, midday naps and all that. Good luck with that,” he gestured to the two dads, who were exchanging one liners back and forth.

Deceit only responded with a glare that begged for mercy.

Remy laughed.

The Playwright walked past Patton and Dad Guy, into where Teacher Guy was sitting at another table, a stack of papers beside him that needed hypothetical grading. There’d been too many people, too much going on in the past day. He needed someone who he could trust to be quiet if needed and, thankfully, Teacher Guy asked much fewer questions than Logan.

The Artist motioned for Deceit to follow him to the other table with the Bard, who was already opening the top-most pizza box and stealing a few slices. The trio actually stole the entire top box and slunk away to another room, just up some stairs, while the other four traded silence and puns. There was a balcony opposite of two doors, presumably bedrooms, and they sat outside on the ground, huddled around the large box of pizza.

It was probably lunch time. They didn’t have Logan to tell them that eating on a schedule was a vital part of setting one’s internal clock, so the only indicator that it was “lunch time” was the tinge of hunger in each of their stomachs.  

“If this hasn’t been a day,” the Artist sighed.

“Oh, definitely. The Thief punched me earlier,” the Bard laughed a little before biting into a slice, talking through the food. “Y’ kn’w, ah d’n’t e’he’ i’.”

Deceit snorted, looking away and laughing into a hand while the Artist reprimanded him. “Oh my God, chew your fucking food.”

The Bard rolled his eyes and swallowed. “I mean, I didn’t expect it. To be honest, I always forget that the Thief’s a violent one.”

“I always remember. Ever since he glared at me ‘first time we formed, I’ve been a little iffy about him,” the Artist waved his third slice in a lazy shrug. “You’re lucky he doesn’t hate your guts.’

“Oh, you’re lucky that absolutely no one hates yours.”

“Really? Thief and Playwright always seem two strokes away from stabbing me.”

“That’s because they don’t understand art. I know they love you! And that’s why WE love each other, remember?” the Bard took a bite out of the Artist’s slice and ignored his offended huffs, “And Deceit! How are you feeling?”

Deceit blinked. He’d been taking in the conversation, trying to dissect the differences between every iteration of Roman.

The Artist and the Bard were an interesting pair. They seemed to be so similar, yet so distinctly different, what with the Artist being an introvert and the Bard more extroverted. The Artist working with physical mediums whereas the Bard performed. But those glaring differences seemed to mask differences in desire, intent — that’s what Deceit had to focus on.

“Hey, Truth and Dare, come back. We miss you,” the Bard patted his knee with a smile. “Are you feeling okay? This has probably been quite the journey, especially with how fast things’ve been happening.”

“Well,” Deceit should indulge the Romans, if only for a little, “It has been. I haven’t spent this much time with….any other. Sides. In a while.”

The Artist nodded sympathetically while the Bard blinked. He tilted his head. “Oh. I thought you and the Dark Sides...? You know? Worked together more.”

Deceit shrugged. He wasn’t revealing anything. “Perhaps we do. In that case, then, it’s the longest I’ve spent with such good company,” he smiled coyly at the Bard.

It took a few seconds, but once the Bard fully interpreted what he said, he flushed almost as bright as his waist sash. He giggled, running his hands through his hair and swaying from side to side.

The Artist beside him also turned red, but just squinted tiredly at Deceit. “C’mon, you don’t have to play us,” he grumbled quietly, “The Prince isn’t here.”

“I know Roman’s not just a prince, he’s much, much more,” Deceit leaned on his hand, resting his chin on it as he watched the Artist.

“Anyone’d know that. He’s an artist. A bard. Playwright, thief, dragon, damsel, child, he’s all of us. But he’s all still a big dumbass,” the Artist ran a hand through his hair, pursing his lips in frustration, “You don’t have to pretend to love us or anything.”

It was Deceit’s turn to be confused. He frowned, leaning back a little in contemplation. Here he thought he was being obvious. And while staying behind the guise of secrecy benefited him greatly, if it was upsetting Roman this much….“Do you really think everything that I say is insincere?”

“Well….” The Artist looked away, staring down the Bard, who was still a bubbly and flustered mess, “Yeah. ‘Course.”

….That did make a little sense. Deceit scooted closer to the Artist. “May I touch your face?” he asked, voice soft.

The Artist’s eyes flicked back up to him quickly before he looked down at the pizza box. There wasn’t any harm. And….he couldn’t say he didn’t want to be touched more. “Sure.”

Deceit lifted a hand to cup the Artist’s cheek, cradling his head as gently as he could. Unconsciously, the Artist leaned into it, exhaling slow as to not lose his self control.

This was….a dream. It had to be. Because Deceit had wished for this for so long, and he was very used to not getting what he wanted. He just had to keep it together.

“Roman, darling,” to that, even the Bard stopped swaying, listening to what Deceit said, “I can’t say I’m the most honest person, but I can promise you this is no lie.”

With that, he pressed a careful kiss to the Artist’s left temple. The Artist’s eyes went wide as saucers as he realized, with an incredible start, that Deceit. Had just kissed him. Deceit had just kissed him, one of the saddest versions of Roman in this miserable little game.

The Bard covered his mouth with both hands, but even that couldn’t hide his elation.

“Holy fuck.”

He fell backwards, laying on the ground with his arms splayed out. It felt like he….was whole.

* * *

 

The Damsel looked out the small window of his room, squinting into the bright light between the bars.

What had just happened? He reached up to his head and ran his hand slowly through his hair, grazing over his left temple.

It kinda felt like someone had….

* * *

 

Deceit smiled a tiny bit, watching the two Romans collectively lose their minds. He was adorable when flustered. “You’re beautiful. Every bit of you,” he said, trying to force the Artist, force Roman, to understand that he was being truthful.

Even if it was a part of Roman, it still meant the world for Deceit to know that Roman knew. They could write this off later, write it off as some —

Deceit wanted to scream. Hang the fuck on. Oh, holy shit. He’d just admitted it.

He leaned back, trying to keep his movements as slow and deliberate and not-panicked as they were before, but holy shit. He’d just said it. He was in love. It was a round-about statement, series of movements and signals, but of course it was, with him.

He was in love with Roman — was it just Roman? It was a different feeling, but the same feeling across the board. God, Deceit didn’t want to deal with this, not on top of everything he was learning about the Imagination and the other Sides. He lifted a hand to his face and rubbed his scaled forehead, tugging his hat down just a tiny bit more. At least the Romans didn’t notice his sudden and extreme change in posture.

Their collective stupor was disturbed by a shout from below, and then the Playwright calling them downstairs.

“ARTIST! WE FORGOT TO TELL THEM!” he snapped, “GET DOWN HERE, HURRY!”

The Artist swore, clearing his throat and standing up. “We, uh, we need to go downstairs, go ahead,” he motioned for Deceit and the Bard to leave, “Ah, fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay!” the Bard picked up the empty pizza box and looped his other arm around Deceit’s, much to the snake’s chagrin. “And we’ll let you tell the others later, okay? We don’t want you to feel uncomfortable at all.”

That was….kind. Deceit didn’t know how to respond, he’d kind of expected the Bard to excitedly blurt it out at some point. Perhaps he would. Deceit couldn’t trust that.

He nodded, and the Bard grinned. He led the way down the stairs, barreling through the kitchen and setting the box down before entering the main room again.

The Playwright, Patton, Dad Guy, and Teacher Guy were all sitting around in a circle. The second couch was empty, so the Bard pulled Deceit onto it, paying the utmost attention. The Artist just sank into the couch on Deceit’s other side, eyes locked onto some papers on the table. Two of them were open, letters that had been opened and were now folded back into the envelopes they’d come from. Only the letter’s receiver’s name was visible, but that gave quite a bit of backstory by themselves.

_Cordial invitation of Dad Guy to the Entry Gala — in celebration of Morality, Logic, Anxiety, and Deceit’s welcome to the Imagination._

_Cordial invitation of Teacher Guy to the Entry Gala — in celebration of Morality, Logic, Anxiety, and Deceit’s welcome to the Imagination._

On the stack’s top was another letter, with a red kiss mark where the stamp would typically go.

_Honorable invitation of Patton ‘Morality’ Sanders to the Entry Gala — in celebration of your welcome to the Imagination._

“Ew, he kissed it,” the Bard bit his lip and looked up, scanning the Playwright’s face. “What is it? I’m guessing it’s from Dragon?”

The Playwright nodded to Patton, and he picked up his invitation and cut it open. Quickly, his eyes scanned it over, and a frown overtook his features. “This’ so weird, a gala? Like a party?”

“That’s my suspicion,” the Playwright said, then rubbed the back of his neck. “We all know, er….”

“Roman’s got a flair for the dramatics,” the Artist continued, voice soft, “Dragon got a lot of that.”

“But not all!” the Bard raised his hands up in Roman’s typical princely pose, grinning cheekily.

The Playwright and the Artist both rolled their eyes. “Yes,” the Playwright said. “It looks as though Dragon is trying to lure us all to the castle.”

“....Gosh,” Patton breathed, setting the invitation down on the table, so everyone could read it.

His hand was shaking a little. He did want to see the Dragon, of course, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t nervous about the implications of the letter. And a part of him hoped that….it hadn’t been the Dragon who sent it. Maybe the other Romans were wrong. Maybe the Prince, HIS prince, was there.

_To Patton,_

_Roman ‘Dragon’ Sanders invites you to a masquerade gala celebrating your entrance into the Imagination, as well as Logan, Virgil, and Deceit’s. Please provide your own costume and mask, as this will be a masquerade ball._

_It will be a grand evening of food, dance, and excitement, made all the better with your attendance. Entry at the Drawbridge gate tonight, gates open at sundown._

_No RSVP required._

_See you soon, my love._

_Prince Roman_

“Oh, fuck him, he’s just gonna sign it like that? What a lilly-livered jackass!” the Bard’s nose scrunched up.

He leaned back again and turned up his head, repulsed by the Dragon’s blatant arrogance.  And the gall, calling Patton his love! It was like he got all the pride and none of the brains! What the hell! The Bard almost wanted to trade him one bit of self-indulgence.

Oh, he might have to throw some of his own punches, once he came face to face with the Dragon. What a disgrace to the Prince’s memory!

“It’s not somethin’ to _celebrate_ ,” Dad Guy said, a small smile on his face. The way his brows pinched definitely betrayed his worry.

Teacher Guy still patted his shoulder and shook his head. “Not the time, Dad.”

“Sorry, you know I goof when I’m nervous.”

“Hang on,” the Artist said, rereading the note, “Playwright and my invitations were different.”

He reached into his hoodie pocket and took out his own invitation, spreading it out on the table.

_To Roman ‘Artist’ Sanders,_

_Roman ‘Dragon’ Sanders invites you to a masquerade gala celebrating Morality, Logic, Anxiety, and Deceit’s entrance into the Imagination. Please provide your own costume and mask, as this will be a masquerade ball._

_It will be a grand evening of food, dance, and excitement — with a very special and very familiar guest. Entry at the Drawbridge gate tonight, gates open at sundown._

_No RSVP required._

_Come prepared._

“He’s….so he’s pretending to be Prince,” Deceit bit his tongue. “That has got to be who the guest is, in your invitation.”

He picked up both letters, turning them around to face himself as he turned over the phrasing in his mind. This was almost his area of expertise. The minute changes of word, the different references to the Prince, everything was catered to the recipient of the letter. Probably as a means to get whoever the letter was sent to do go.

Him and Patton both couldn’t hide their disappointment, but….it did make sense, in his world. The Dragon was manipulating them into attending, offering whatever he could.

“I don’t get it,” the Bard said, crossing his arms, “What’s the point of this? A ball? Like, that sounds flipping sweet, but for what?”

The Playwright responded. “My hypothesis is that it’s to get us all in one place. Every one of us figments, and every Side, but I don’t understand why he would—”

“Okay, so he’s gonna kill us on the dance floor,” the Artist said, pulling his knees up to his chest.

“Why do you think he’s inviting us, then?” Teacher Guy asked, “I mean, we’re probably going? Not much danger for us, and, well….”

“I wanna dance with you,” Dad Guy declared, throwing his arm around Teacher Guy’s shoulders.

Teacher Guy smiled, patting Dad Guy’s shoulder fondly as he turned to the Playwright again with more questions on his tongue. “It’s a free party. Knowing that we’re all Thomas, there’ll probably be pizza. Why do you think he’s throwing it all like a party? And what’s the point of having the costumes?”

“Dramatics?” the Playwright offered, voice weak in confusion. “The Dragon would have to figure out which costumed Thomas-esque people are the Sides, are us, and are, well, characters.”

The Artist exhaled sharply. “This is a long way to go for aesthetics. That can’t be all he wants.”

“Either way, we should go,” Patton said, voice soft, “We….Deceit, we were all talking about this. We’ve gotta talk to the Dragon.”

Deceit looked up from the letters, meeting Patton’s eyes with understanding. He nodded slowly. “I agree. No doubt it’s a trap. Of course, of course it’s a trap,” his brain was working at the speed of light, trying to figure out the smartest passage through this, “But we do need to meet him.”

A beat of silence followed that declaration.

Patton was afraid. They couldn’t not meet the Dragon — he was a part of Roman! And every part was valuable and loved and he needed to hug — but the way that the Artist curled in on himself, the way that the Playwright was squeezing his knees with his fists, the way that the Bard was trying to smile, as though it could cover up all of their fears…. It was going to be okay. It was all going to be okay. He was going to talk to the Dragon and give him a scolding. And, if he managed to get through to the Dragon, then it might help the other Romans not be afraid of that part of him. That was what mattered most.

Of course this would be difficult. Deceit would have to tread carefully. He didn’t want to risk any more damage to Roman’s psyche. He almost wanted to forget that kiss, that stupid kiss, because now it was dwelling too heavily on his mind for him to focus on the task at hand. This gala, this party that the Dragon was throwing….did he have the Prince? None of the Romans knew where Prince had gone. The way they talked about him made it sound like he was dead.

There was no way he was dead. And there was no way Deceit was going to let any of them get hurt, either.

At least the other Romans weren’t arguing back this time around. Hopefully they’d been convinced of this turn’s necessity.

God, he was so happy he didn’t have to talk in circles around this topic.

“Well, um,” Dad Guy fidgeted with the sleeve of his cardigan, “I don’t know what you all wanna do now. I’ve got cookies in—”

A sharp knock at the door shut him up. They all froze, huddled in their seats and couches. Deceit actually drew one of his daggers, poised to fight if need be. This was poor timing for the guards to have found them.

The door flung open.

There was Remy, glasses slipping down his nose, panting. He fixed his glasses and waved an arm across his body.

“Guys. You’re gonna wanna come with me, pronto,” he pointed at Dad Guy and Teacher Guy, “Emile needs them. You’re good.”

“Awh, but I just made cookies,” Dad Guy said.

“We can bring them the cookies later,” Teacher Guy offered, to which Dad Guy immediately brightened up, clapping.

“You’re right! We’ll bring you cookies later!”

“What happened?” the Playwright asked, fixing his glasses.

Remy usually didn’t run. He liked to take his time, make things easy for himself. What might have caused this sudden conundrum?

“Can’t answer that right now, we’ve gotta get going,” Remy wasn’t even holding a Starbucks cup as he fixed his glasses and motioned to them again, “You really need to see this.”


	13. be prepared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: kidnapping, isolationism, dragons, fighting (sword fighting specifically), graphic depictions of violence, graphic depiction of a wound, blood, a big ol' gash, suggested stabbings, panic, a lot of panic, graphic depiction of a panic attack, sobbing/crying, hardcore insults — this chapter has a LOT, heed my warnings, and if i missed anything at all PLEASE let me know!!
> 
> its angst time :) and meet my evil son: the Dragon

The Thief was running. He wanted to be alone.

Alone was safe.

Alone was better than disappointing.

The Thief vaulted over another few boxes in front of a building and kept running. He could still hear someone — Virgil? Deceit? Bard, maybe? — shouting for him. 

He wanted to be in a familiar place. Alone in his tree, where he could seal up the door and never bother anyone ever again. 

A shout behind him as he tore past two of the Imagination’s inhabitants. While he turned to glance, apologize as he turned a corner, he ran directly into someone.

Typically, the Thief would shove off of them and continue running, but their arms carefully wrapped around him. And they smelt starkly of not just his tree, but of Thomas’ living room. Of regularity. Of Roman.

He squeezed his eyes shut and curled up. Oh, fuck them all. He wanted to be Roman.

“Well, well, Robin Hood. That was easy,” a gloved hand ran through his hair and the Thief’s eyes snapped open. 

He was staring right into a black sash. 

He shoved off, drawing his sword immediately, despite how hard his hands shook. 

There were dozens of guards before him, standing in three lines, all with their swords drawn. That definitely wasn’t a good start, but what boiled the Thief’s blood more was who lead them.

In front of the crowd of guards was another Roman, a very well known Roman. Two ram’s horns curled out of his hair, and a crown sat in the center of his head, golden with glittering red gems. With a red suit that paid homage to the Prince’s typical outfit, black boots, and a black belt, sash, and cape, the Dragon looked deadly.

The Thief had never seen him up close like this. The closest he’d been was watching from the roof, hiding behind a chimney when the Damsel….

“You’re out of the castle,” the Thief said, sword held up between them.

The Dragon grinned, and the Thief jerked back a little upon seeing that his teeth were all pointed carnivorously. 

“Clearly,” the Dragon tilted his head, and the Thief caught a glimpse of earrings dangling amidst his beautifully tousled hair, “I’m actually looking for someone else. Short, maybe, ah, ten years old? Have you seen anyone like that?”

The Thief’s eyes widened as he processed that, including the playful lilt in his tone. The Dragon was aiming for the Child, eh? 

“You’re never gonna get him,” he snapped, taking another step back, sword raising more.

“THIEF!”

Son of a fucking bitch.

The Dragon let out a laugh, clapping excitedly. “Wonderful dramatic irony,” he sang. 

Out the same bend that the Thief had just come from, darted the Child. The Thief shouted, grabbing him by the cloak and pulling him backward, hugging him against his side. 

The Child blinked in surprise — he hadn’t actually expected to catch up to the Thief, given how he was ten and also less athletic. And he also didn’t expect the Thief to grab him like that. Nor did he expect the sword. Nor the person at the end of the sword (was that Dragon?!) nor the legion of guards behind him.

Ah, hell, the Thief was being attacked. And now he was right in the middle of it, too. The Child sniffed, just barely having stopped crying, and hugged the Thief’s leg tight. 

“Hey, ya lil’ shit,” the Thief murmured, “Very bad timing.”

The Child looked up at him and slowly raised a hand toward the Dragon, who was watching him with a pleased smile. 

He had a lot of questions. Why was the Thief talking with the Dragon? Were they talking or were they fighting? Why did he have his sword up? Why did he run? Why had he been so cruel to the Bard and him? Was he okay? 

“That’s Dragon,” he was all he could say.

“Yep,” the Thief patted his back and the Child grabbed his arm, letting the Thief lift him up.

“Why?”

The Dragon blinked, smile dropping into confusion. Wait, why was he Dragon? Was that the question?

Wait, why WAS he the Dragon? How’d he pick this form again? He was pretty sure it had something to do with the whole villain schtick. 

OH! Oh, right, yeah, that was why.

Well, with that thought process out of the way, the Dragon stepped forward, putting his fingertip to the point of the Thief’s sword and shifting it away from his face.

“I don’t know, kid, he stopped me,” the Thief responded. In that motion, though, the Thief stepped back once again and lifted the sword, more firm in his grip. He and the Child watched the Dragon, one angry and another afraid. Just as it should be.

“Au contraire, kiddo, I’m looking for you,” the Child winced when the Dragon said ‘kiddo’ in a higher pitched voice, almost mimicking Patton, “You’re coming with me. You’re going to be my guest of honor.”

Guest of honor? At what? 

The Child’s hands balled tighter in the Thief’s cloak. He didn’t want to go anywhere with the Dragon.

“You’re gonna have to go through me,” the Thief hissed, holding him closer.

Of course. The Thief thought he was a hero. 

The Dragon laughed, putting a hand on the hilt of his sword, tucked away at his hip. How easy it was for him to forget that the real hero was gone. 

“If you insist. Have at thee!”

* * *

 

You know what? Logan decided, while running between the alleyways of the town, that he was going to write in a lot more hours of gym time for Thomas’ regular workout regiment. Maybe that would lessen the pain of these long chase sequences.

He couldn’t hear the Child’s yelling in front of him anymore, but he definitely hadn’t lost him. They’d gone straight on this one road for quite a bit, next to another tall wall, until the speck that was the Thief turned right.

Logan heard Virgil shout something behind him, but the distance and chatter of the surrounding citizens made it indecipherable. Of course Virgil had followed — safety in numbers and all that, and it seemed that the Thief was volatile enough to pose as a potential threat to the Child’s safety. And to his own. 

He wished they had more time to discuss what they’d learned, about Roman and about this situation. And, frankly, about themselves. What Logan wouldn’t give to have a simple sit down with Patton, Virgil, Deceit, and the handful of Romans they’d found. 

Thinking about that took too much brain power, though. He finally got closer to the corner that he’d seen the Child turn down.

Only for the Child to run straight back into him, shouting incoherently in jumbled words and sentences. Logan nearly plowed right through him, gripping the wall to stay standing while resting a second hand on the Child’s shoulder.

“Child!” Virgil shouted as he came up beside Logan. “What—where’s Thief?!”

He squatted down to the Child’s height, and the Child let go of Logan, throwing his arms around Virgil’s shoulders and curling into him. 

Virgil winced a little. Oh, yikes. Kids. He hugged the Child back delicately, glancing quick at Logan. This was worrying; what was he saying? The Child was still babbling incoherently about “scary”, “needs help”, “run.”

“You’re gonna have to talk slower, Child, what’s wrong?” Virgil asked, rubbing his back comfortingly.

The Child hummed quickly in affirmation and took a big, deep breath. 

“Dragon’s here!” he shouted, right into Virgil’s ear.

He recoiled, ear ringing out a little, and the Child let go of him. A flash of panic shot across his face, but was quickly stuffed down as he launched himself back into Virgil’s chest.

Felt safe. The monster was here. 

“Dragon’s here, and Thief ran into him and now they’re sword fighting and there’re a lot of guards and I’m scared, I’m really really scared, because Dragon’s saying mean things and he said he’s gonna take me somewhere, but Thief told him no so now they’re fighting—”

“Where,” Virgil asked.

His protective instincts slowly took over. He could barely hear Logan try to interrupt, something about collecting themselves, thinking of a solution. They didn’t have the time to think.

“Hold on, we should—” Logan tried to provide insight, but Virgil held up a hand. 

His gut was telling him that they needed to get to the Thief as fast as possible. This wasn’t a situation that needed deep thought, not right now. Not yet.

He patted the Child’s back. “Can I pick you up?” he asked. 

When the Child nodded, he picked him up with one arm, other arm reaching for his sword. Agh, he’d never done this before. Definitely wouldn’t be as adept at fighting as Roman would be, but goddamn if he couldn’t try. And going in with a weapon made him feel much safer than without. “Can I hand you off to Logan?”

The Child leaned over and hugged Logan’s neck, slowly transferring himself over. Now with both hands open, Virgil drew his sword and took the shield off of his back. 

“You—what?” Logan apparently hadn’t noticed the sword. “When were you armed? Wait, when did you get a sword?”

Figures. They were all kinda hidden away. 

“Thief gave me one. We’ll get you one later, right now we gotta,” Virgil motioned for Logan to get behind him, which he did. 

They slowly approached the alley. The Child pointed to another road and they continued with bated breath, Virgil leading with his shield.

As they turned the corner, the Child’s story was confirmed. The guards had formed a circle, blocking them from seeing anything, but they could definitely hear the insults and clanging of metal. 

“You’re weaker than I thought you’d be.”

“Go sit on a hoard or something.”

“I would have much more of a hoard if SOMEONE didn’t keep stealing my jewelry!”

“You don’t NEED all that gold! It isn’t even REAL, you can summon MORE.”

“But I WANT it!”

Virgil looked up at the guards — they weren’t paying attention to the outside of the ring, all facing inward, watching the fight. He motioned with one finger for Logan to follow. He tiptoed around the circle, watching between the guards. In the slim gaps, Virgil could make out figures jumping at each other, but there wasn’t enough to see details.. 

“Virgil,” Logan whispered, at his shoulder, “We cannot fight all of these men alone.”

“We can’t just leave Thief alone,” was his response.

While that wasn’t a falsehood — leaving the Thief would likely result in bodily harm, possibly death — Logan didn’t want to consider that possibility — the odds that they could fight against all of these guards plus the Dragon were abysmal. One could even say they were infinitesimal. 

Virgil wasn’t listening to reason, though, and his own fear was so thick that it was difficult to think clearly. Or maybe it was the light headache in the back of his head from how fast the day had been going, just jumping from one conflict to the next.

“Mister–Mister Logic,” the Child whispered, pulling himself up more in Logan’s arms. 

He was a little heavy, if Logan was being honest, but he wasn’t about to put him down. He shifted his hold and squeezed the Child tighter. Hopefully that was calming in some manner.

Hopefully there was an entrance into the ring. Virgil looked up, at the walls. Any ledges? Balconies he could climb and drop into? He had to get in there. He had to help Roman.

He slid forward a little, brushing just past a guard’s back and squeezing out the other side as they almost completed a semicircle around the fight ring. 

“You’ve only ever dragged us down. Dragged Roman down, dragged King Thomas down, trying to subdue me.”

“Yeah, well.”

The Thief’s voice was lacking in bite. Virgil winced. 

“Wait! Wait, wait—Bonnie, put the sword down, I just found Cly~yde!” the Dragon shouted, riffing off of the “y” in Clyde.

Virgil stiffened, one arm reaching back and pulling Logan and Child behind himself. Fuck.

“Guards! Back there!” 

The guard Virgil was standing behind stepped back. The entire ring opened, almost like a bubble, and engulfed the trio into it. Virgil raised his shield instinctively, though it felt clunky and unnatural in his hands. And the sight before them was so jarring he almost dropped it.

“Mister Logic,” the Child whispered, pressing his face into Logan’s collar, “I’m scared.”

Logan’s hand squeezed his back. “It will be okay,” his voice was barely over a breath as he responded, “Don’t look.”

They should run. They should have gotten back up, should have returned to Deceit and Patton and the Bard, who may know where they could obtain extra help. 

God damnit, why did no one ever listen to him!?

The Dragon smiled at them. The Thief’s cloak was on the ground, dropped when the fight began. He glanced over at them, breathing heavily, and frowned. Worry creased over his brow; they shouldn’t be here, he could handle this. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” his voice was riddled with panic but, honestly, he couldn’t bring himself to hide it at this moment. 

“We couldn’t just leave you alone here,” Virgil gestured around, “You’re VERY outnumbered!” 

“I can handle it!”

“Falsehood. Look around yourself, there is no way you would win this battle, much less survive.”

“Okay, you,” the Thief pointed at Logan, “Are more of a pacifist than Playwright, so don’t even try. And I can handle this, you—”

“Hey, petty theft, you’re a snorefest,” the Dragon interrupted, snapping his fingers a few times, “How about you steal some Z’s and let the real adults do the talking.”

“High talk coming from the cartoon villain,” Virgil snapped back. 

The Thief took this bickering as a chance to catch his breath. He had been nicked in the arm and hand, but he’d gotten the Dragon near the leg. The blood was seeping on to each other’s clothes. Perhaps that was why the Dragon was wearing such a gaudy red suit.

The Dragon’s eyes were resting on the Child, mind far away from Virgil’s ranting. Good, good.The little fish hook was back. That was good. But, even better, he’d brought actual Sides! Real, actual whole Sides. This would be quite the first impression. The Dragon wanted it to count. 

“Oh, hush up, my dear Stormy Knight! You and I’re both cartoon villains, and I’m Disney at LEAST!” the Dragon stepped back and bowed, “A pleasure to finally meet you both! I’m on babysitting duty, so I’m going to need the kid.”

“You cannot be serious. We have received many forewarnings about you and your villainy, Dragon,” Logan stated, hold tightening around the Child. “Why would we relinquish anything to you?”

Well, those were the pitfalls of the reputation he’d cultivated. The Dragon stood up straight and sauntered closer, sword lowering so he could open his arms in a welcoming manner. “Logie bear, darling, I could be whatever you want,” his voice dropped into a drawl. “And I can’t say I want you and Holden Gall-field over there to leave. How about you come with me? The castle’s much more refined than whatever treehouse this one’s—”

Both Logan and Virgil flinched away from him. The Thief stuck his sword out, stopping the Dragon from approaching any more. The air was tense, the Dragon watching Virgil and Logan with an almost hungry gaze, the Thief glaring daggers directly at the Dragon. The Child’s grip was so tight around Logan’s shoulders that he could feel the nail dents forming.

“....Move your sword,” the Dragon said, not looking up.

There was a flame in his eyes. Virgil could see it burning. 

“Make me, Ice Queen,” the Thief responded. “No one’s going with you.”

Another beat of tense silence. 

Then.

The Dragon screamed, lunging to the side and slashing at the Thief, who lifted his sword just in time to block a cut for his neck. Virgil lifted the shield more, though pointed at the guards, as they surged around him. He shouted as well and stabbed with the sword, trying to repel whoever he could. 

He swiped at the side and swung the shield up, knocking the metal-rimmed side against a guard’s jaw. 

Logan gripped the Child tightly, pulling away and stepping back against a wall. A guard’s hand fell on the Child’s shoulder, and he tried to tear them apart.

“NO,” the Child shouted, leaning over and biting the guard’s hand. 

Virgil darted between them, slashing the guard’s arm away. “Logan, if you see a break, you’re gonna have to run,” he snapped.

That was preposterous, did Virgil have any idea? Of what he was facing? Alone? 

Logan’s headache grew, and he hissed angrily.

“You’re—There is no way I’m leaving you both here to deal with this!”

Virgil shot him a glare over his shoulder and pushed back another guard. “Child can’t stay here! Not if that Drama Dragon wants him! And you’re unarmed!”

Logan wanted to argue, but he couldn’t think clearly enough to propose an adequate alternative. He looked up, in time to see the Thief kick the Dragon back and shoot forward again, sword poised to stab. In the back of Logan’s mind, he vaguely remembered that this was also a part of Roman, this irate, ego-centric, aggressively possessive monster. 

“Things that you want to believe. Things that you wish were true. And things that you wish weren’t.”

It seemed that his observations were unerring, as usual. 

Virgil shouted again, incomprehensible over the metal hitting metal. Logan squeezed the Child tighter and turned away slightly, eyes scanning over the crowd, waiting. As much as he did not want to leave the fighting duo alone, he had to face that he was providing no support in this situation. If anything, he and the Child were impediments, due to how many times Virgil and the Thief had to flip attention between himself and the guards. 

Okay, also, why the fuck were there so many guards? Virgil coulda sworn he’d knocked at least a few of these guys down.

This all was also proving to Virgil that sword fighting was not his alley. He would have preferred any other kind of weapon. Maybe something ranged? Because being this close to someone, swinging a sword and smelling the blood, as fake as it was, and seeing their bodies fall back. 

How did Roman take this? Was he more accustomed to it or something?

Also, this was taking upper body strength that Virgil just didn’t have. Did Roman imagine himself a pair of fit biceps to lift this sword? Their bodies did have slight differences, yeah, but like. This was a lot. The guards surged forward, nearly overpowering him. 

Another sword crossed between his and another guard’s. The Thief yanked him off, tossing him aside with a tired grunt. 

Virgil glanced behind him and saw the Dragon getting up from the ground, heard mumbled swearing. The Thief must have knocked him over before coming to his rescue. 

Their eyes met for a brief second. The Thief looked stricken, almost as panicked as Virgil was, mouth slightly parted and panting. 

Virgil didn’t look any better. They were both exhausted. But they weren’t out of the woods at all. 

“Behind you,” Virgil hissed, “Focus on him! I’ve got this!”

The Thief kicked the Dragon back again, and plunged his sword into one of the guards’ backs. “Yeah, you’re really getting this, Twenty One Plights,” he snapped back. “This is what ‘got this’ looks like!”

“Oh, fuck OFF,” Virgil kicked one of the guards’ knees in and slammed his shield into his face. 

As he did so, the Thief wirled back around. The Dragon shouted, leaping with yet another slash towards his person, which the Thief parried.

An opening. Logan had been paying less attention to the fight itself, more to the pattern of guards and gaps. There was space, besides the Thief, out and to the left, where he and the Child could hopefully flee from. 

He did his best to not think of the dismal odds as he  balled his hand into the back of the Child’s cloak and tried to scoot closer to it.

“Going so soon!” the Dragon shouted behind him. 

The Child sobbed quietly. He was so afraid.

“FUCK—”

The sound of metal. 

“THIEF!”

“LOGAN—”

It happened so fast. 

Logan found himself trading one Roman for another, the Child jumping straight out of his arms as the Thief fell backwards into them, sword clattering to the ground. He made a surprised splutter and sank down to the ground.

“Fucking — ROMAN,” he heard Virgil shout. 

Another metal clang, Virgil dropping his sword to grab the Child, who had immediately curled into a ball on the ground. 

He wrapped his the side of cloak around the Child, squeezing him tight against his side and stepping in between Logan and the Thief, and the Dragon. The Child was saying something; he could hear “okay” a lot. 

“Virgil,” Logan hissed. “V–Virgil.”

Virgil’s heart clenched. Logan’s voice was cracking. 

“Virgil, he’s bleeding.”

He was not going to turn around. He couldn’t take his eyes off of the danger, the Dragon, in front of him. He couldn’t focus on anything else. Especially not the goosebumps forming on his arms. Or the tingling sensation in the back of his head. Spikes of fear from in front of him and in him and behind him.

Logan quickly began undoing the Thief’s belt and lifting his shirt. A dark red stain was growing in his abdomen — there was a laceration across the Thief’s chest. Nearly a full foot in length — there were many other scars here — 28 centimeters in length and seven centimeters in depth at its deepest point 

“Logan.”

— had Roman always had so many scars?  — 

he couldn’t see any bone and the Thief’s chest was still rising and falling and rising and falling — falling 

— failing 

—

— fuck his head hurt

—

“Logan, dear. Please breathe.”

— was it raining? 

Hands already lathered in blood. A third hand, also covered in blood, held his shoulder. Roman winced in his lap.

He couldn’t breathe. Roman was bleeding.

“Please. I’m okay.”

You’re bleeding and you’re telling me to breathe — Logan wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t make any sound other than a choked yelp — was he losing control of his physical faculties? 

“Darling, look at my eyes. Follow me. One, two, three, four.”

“Awh, did you both feel that?”

The Thief was looking up, watching Logan’s face, lips slightly parted. Despite the gash in his chest, he was doing surprisingly well, trying to calm Logan. Perhaps he hadn’t seen this much blood before? But at that sensation….his left hand reached up and traced along his left temple, as he kept counting. 

The Child made a similar movement, tearstained face twisted in confusion. Did someone just….

The Dragon’s hand was cupping the left side of his own face, grinning ear to ear. Someone loved them. Loved HIM. One of them kissed him. A different him, but still! He didn’t just want one, oh, no, no, he was an egoist, remember, he was selfish, he wanted more. And he wanted them for just himself.

Virgil was trying to think of the best way to get out of here. The Dragon looked distracted, eyes glazed into the distance. Something was on his mind. Virgil didn’t give a fuck about it.

Plus, Virgil didn’t want to keep looking at the frenzied grin on this Roman’s face. It was terrifying. Out of place from the otherwise familiar royal regalia. 

He glanced back, only to see that Logan was holding the still-bleeding Thief in his lap, curled around his head. His shoulders were trembling, one hand over his own mouth, the other holding the Thief’s waist and keeping him close. Even his glasses had fallen and were sitting awkwardly on the very tip of his nose.

Fuck. Logan was having a panic attack. That’s what Virgil had been feeling. 

God, he was bogged down in his own adrenaline that he couldn’t even feel Logan’s anxiety.

“Mister Anxiety,” the Child whispered, hiccupping between words, “I’m–I’m scared.”

“C’mon, Virgil, I’ve missed you. Shall we dance?” the Dragon said, laughing.

Laughing much too close. He was approaching. “Logan,” Virgil said between gritted teeth, “You’ve gotta run.”

“Mister–Mister Anxiety?” the Child whispered. 

This was a dumb idea. The hairs on Virgil’s neck were standing up as he could hear and generally sense the Dragon coming closer. “It’s gonna be okay, kid. Promise.”

“....I trust you.”

The Child’s wide eyes were peeking out at him, all he could see of him from inside his cloak. Virgil was watching him in his peripheral, but he was more focusing on Logan and the Thief. 

He watched the Thief shift himself upright in Logan’s lap, could see his mouth moving as he whispered to Logan.

They’d be okay. 

“I hope you’re not going anywhere, my dear,” the Dragon’s breath was soft on the back of Virgil’s neck.

The Dragon definitely didn’t expect it when Virgil elbowed him straight in the rib and ducked beneath his arm. He darted to the other side, away. 

Something pinched his side. It felt sharp, like nails digging in and squeezing. He didn’t have the time to focus on it. Running out of options.

The guards closed around him more, one of them jabbing him in the back as he tried to get away. The Dragon was now stood between him and Logan, with all attention towards himself. With no weapons and the Child in his other arm, Virgil definitely couldn’t be fighting. But he was gonna fucking TRY.

“Look, Virge, this’ been fun. I can’t say I don’t love watching you fight. We should have done this dance sooner,,” the Dragon pressed two fingers to his chest, walking them up delicately to his collarbone, “But I need Child.”

“You need a shower is what you need,” the Child shot back.

The Dragon barred his teeth, growling impatiently at the lump in Virgil’s cloak. He WANTED this stupid plan to WORK, and it wouldn’t without the—

Oh. Oh, that was so simple. Why was he so stupid. 

No, no, he wasn’t stupid. He’d just been using his brain on other things, thinking about other marvelous endeavors. That’s all! Not stupid.

Hm. He would have to discuss this oversight with Damsel. Discuss it.

He grinned, lifting his eyes up to Virgil’s angry scowl. They all had the same amber eyes, but up close like this, the Dragon could see dots of purple flecked throughout his iris. So mesmerizing.

Such beauty. 

Much wow.

The Dragon chuckled, ducking his head again and covering his mouth. Holy shit. 

“....Hey, uh. Are you done laughing at my face?” Virgil said. He couldn’t mask the terror in his voice, but there was definitely a layer of indignation now. “You’re wearing an all red suit and you’re gonna laugh at my face?”

“You just make me think of memes, sweetheart, don’t worry,” the Dragon stood upright again, “I think your face is splendid. So splendid, in fact, that I’d like it to come with me.”

Virgil’s brow furrowed in confusion and fear as he tried to decipher what the ever loving fuck that meant. Without giving him time to think, however, the Dragon reached out and cupped his jaw roughly. 

Something on Virgil’s side stung when the Dragon pulled him closer. He winced at the movement, but the Dragon didn’t seem to notice.

“Guards!” he hollered, holding eye contact with Virgil, “I’ll meet you at the castle!”

The Child gasped, talking over the Dragon. “Mister Anxiety, you’re–you’re bleeding.”

Virgil’s beautiful eyes widened. “What—”

And the Dragon changed. 

“That’s it,” the Thief coaxed Logan quietly, “That’s it, that’s it, buddy. There you go.”

“You’re still bleeding,” Logan hadn’t moved his eyes from the 27.65 centimeter cut that adorned the Thief’s chest. “You shouldn’t be comforting me.”

“I want to make sure you’re okay. And I need you to, you know, help me get to a doctor. Feeling better?” 

Logan exhaled. “Yes, a little. I’m sorry for—”

Thump.

The Thief scrambled to his feet, adrenaline not yet worn off to the point of pain, and pulled Logan aside. They both were smushed against the brick wall by a red, scaly tail. The tail of a dragon. 

Specifically, the Dragon, who was holding a screaming Virgil and a screaming Child in one of his claws. He roared into the air and pushed off of the ground, turning his back on the Thief and Logan, who watched in horrified awe. Large red wings, speckled with glittering gold dots, spread out and caught wind. 

The guards, having received new and very direct orders, ignored the Thief and Logan. They turned in unison and began marching down one of the alleys, in the same direction that the Dragon was flying off in. Toward the castle. 

It took a minute for the shock to wear off and for them to not hear the screaming anymore.

With one shaking hand, Logan took off his glasses, cleaned them on his shirt, and put them back on. 

“Holy fuck,” he whispered to no one. 

They’d lost the Child. They’d lost Virgil. 

“We need to go,” the Thief’s voice was breathless, almost too tired to panic about this, “We–we need to find Bard and Artist and Deceit and Patton and pull something together—” the Thief grabbed Logan’s arm and tried to take a step forward. 

Logan had to catch him from collapsing. There was blood dripping all down his chest from the ignored open wound.

He was bleeding out. It would need stitches and perhaps some magic to heal. Logan didn’t know magic. He didn’t know anyone who did. Magic wasn’t real. Magic was real in this realm. 

This time, he beat back his rising panic with a figurative mental broom. No time for emotions right now. He stooped down, picking the Thief up as delicately as his trembling hands allowed, and exhaled. 

The alley was now empty. And Logan had nowhere to—

“Holy guacamole, what–oh my God, is that Roman?” he turned to the voice. 

Oh, it was Thomas, jogging toward them. “Thomas,” Logan asked, “How did you get into the Imagination?”

The Thomas frowned and stopped in front of him. Upon closer inspection, this Thomas was wearing a very specific costume. Donning a caramel-colored cardigan, pink tie, and glasses, this Thomas looked starkly like….

“No, no, um. Awh, jeez, Scoob, I don’t think I’ve got a lot of time to explain how this place works. I’m Dr. Emile Picani,” he leaned in, inspecting the Thief’s wound, “I was just taking a little walking break between appointments, but I might have to reschedule my next one. He doesn’t look good.”

“Picani,” the Thief’s voice was barely above a whisper now, “Just–Just in time.”

Dr. Picani. The therapist. The Child had mentioned something like this could happen. 

Emile patted the Thief’s shoulder and stooped down, lifting one of his arms around his own. “Logan, grab his other arm,” Logan followed the directions, “Alright, let’s go.”

And, without any other feasible plans and with a numb emptiness in his chest, Logan followed.


	14. part of your world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: panic, crying, threats, mentions of violence, thoughts of violence/fighting, sword mention, past violence, torture mention — tbh, idk what else is in here? please let me know if there's anything i've missed!
> 
> <3 <3 <3 <3 <3!

Remy was being uncharacteristically quiet. Patton and Deceit could tell it was unusual, given the Bard’s conversation prompts garnered single word answers. “Mhm,” “No,” or “Yeah.” When the Artist asked where they were going, Remy only said “Emile’s place.”

Something must have happened. But they couldn’t figure out what. 

They were walking through another indoor alleyways, roofed by a walking bridge, when Remy turned left and opened a door. It seemed he knew the ins and outs of this town easily, despite how much more detailed it’d become. And, as Deceit had noted earlier, it HAD become more detailed. Through the door was a set of stairs and up the stairs was a small garden courtyard, with a pastel pink door at the end with a sign denoting it as “Dr. Emile Picani, PsyD.”

“That’s incredibly professional, all things considered,” Deceit gestured to the placard.

“Ah, I think it’s to mark the building as a doctor’s office,” the Playwright said, nose scrunching, “I’ve never seen that before, though.”

“You haven’t?”

“Not on Emile’s door, no. We should look into researching the laws surrounding doctors’ offices.”

“Research?” Patton asked, “Wait, what do you research for?”

“For creating, Patty-cake. We don’t just invent how much blood is in the human body, the different types of swords, how refrigerators work. That’s all research,” the Playwright seemed so pleased with himself.

“Yeah, like we’re any good at it,” in contrast, the Artist was more dejected. “We aren’t good at researching, using references, anything realistic. That’s….”

“We don’t have to research anything, if we just memorize it all! Or if we just make stuff up!” the Bard bumped hips with the Artist and summoned his ukulele again, strumming the first few chords to ‘Your Welcome’ before Remy put his hand on the instrument.

“Stop,” his voice was so serious, “Look, uh. It’s pretty bad.”

They formed in a semi-circle around him, Remy’s hand on the door. He pushed his sunglasses up and rubbed his forehead. 

“Emile called me in the middle of giving midday naps, so I haven’t had coffee in a hot sec, so sorry. But, like, okay,” he fixed his glasses and shot everyone a look, turning slow to get the whole semi-circle. “Logan’s a lil’ spooked. Emile’ll explain what happened. Just don’t be loud, a’ight?”

The group shared looks at each other, mostly confused, though Patton gave them all his patton-ted Dad glare. 

“Well,” Patton said, turning to Remy with a final determined grimace, “Alrighty. Open sesame?”

Remy opened the door cautiously, peeking in himself before opening it wider and allowing everyone else entrance. 

The first room was a sitting room, themed similarly to how Emile’s office with multiple cartoon-themed posters. There were some couches and chairs around a larger coffee table, a few other coffee tables between the seating. An assortment of magazines and children’s books were displayed on the main coffee table. There was a reception area to the left, with a sign in sticker list and a computer behind a desk, but with no receptionist and no patients. 

Just Emile and Logan sitting on the main couch. While Emile was sitting upright on the left, hands calmly folded in his lap, Logan was sitting very il-Logan-ly. Slouched tiredly into the opposite corner, glasses folded in the hand he was using to rub his own face, legs kicked out. Patton’s brow furrowed, inspecting Logan’s positioning. He could almost smell the grief radiating off of him. 

Virgil, the Child, and the Thief were nowhere to be found. 

Emile looked upon hearing the door’s hinge. He offered a tired smile and motioned to the seating. “Hey, everyone’s here,” his voice was quite soft, despite Deceit and Patton’s preconceived notions about him.

“Joy,” Logan sounded tired, almost defeated. 

Once the initial shock wore off, Patton rushed to his side, setting a hand on his shoulder and sinking down to kneel beside him.. Logan flinched away, and Patton lifted both hands again immediately. “Sorry! Sorry, kiddo,” he bit his lip for a second, then continued, “What happened?”

Logan shifted two fingers, flicking one eye at Patton. It was bloodshot, with the surrounding eyelid puffy red. He examined Patton’s expression, with his cheeks puffed up and brow pinched together, and closed his eyes again. He couldn’t keep looking at Patton’s face, not when he’d nearly watched Roman — not Roman, the Thief, die. Nearly. And then he’d let Virgil and the Child both get kidnapped. Plus this headache, the same one from the previous night, was throbbing in the back of his skull, only exacerbated by his crying. 

Good Lord, he’d been crying. Another thing to tick off the figurative “New Things” list.

“Do you want me to tell them?” Emile spoke slow and soft. 

Logan shrugged. Someone had to, and it wasn’t going to be him. “Thief could explain,” Emile suggested, still treading lightly.

His crossed arms seized closer, and Emile winced. Jinkies. Shouldn’t have brought up the Thief.

“Oh, he’d better,” the Bard hissed, a muddled anger laced through his voice.

He yelped when the Artist elbowed him in the side, shooting him a dark glare. Emile looked between them and stood up. “Yeah, you’d all — well, maybe just the Romans? Deceit and Patton can stay out here, and we’ll tell them together. How’s that sound, Logan?” 

He made a bit of a choked sound in trying to answer. He couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d just stood there.

“Kiddo?”

He was so useless. 

“Logan, buddy, move your hands.”

“No,” he hissed.

“Breathe with me,” he heard Emile again, to his side, “I’ll count again, okay?”

This was pathetic. No wonder none of them listened to him. Dealing with plentitudes of positive emotions were hard, he couldn’t have imagined — oh, now was he imagining things? 

These overly-abundant negative emotions were increasing such that he could feel a spike in his brain’s norepinephrine levels, which was silly in and of itself because he didn’t even have a physical brain for these hormones to spike within. 

Patton tapped Logan’s elbow again, gently holding his forearms as Logan’s hand squeezed his face even tighter. 

“Well, isn’t this dandy?” the Bard’s voice was a little too loud as he ran his hand through his hair, mussing it up before smoothing it back once more.” We broke Professor Glum. Where’s Thief?”

“Hey,” Patton said, shooting him a Dad glare. “Zip it, lock it, and put it in your pocket.”

The Playwright sank down beside Logan, on the opposite side of Patton. He hadn’t taken his eyes off of Logan since they entered. 

The Bard backed up with a scoff. Clearly something was wrong! And Logan didn’t want to tell them! His stomach lurched with nervousness; they’d never seen Logan so rattled. If the Thief were here, he’d tell them what they did wrong. Plus, the Bard missed him, regretted their fight. 

“Logan, dear, it’s okay,” the Playwright said, watching him shift uncomfortably, “How about Bard, Artist, and I go talk to Thief. It has been a dramatic few days and being reminded of my….of Roman’s fragmented state can’t be helpful in stabilizing you.”

“Ditto,” the Artist mumbled, still tugging at the strings of his hoodie from where he stood, just barely inside the doorway. The Bard nodded, too, eyes still pointed away.

Roman hated being so useless, and something in their chests told them that it was partly his fault.

Emile looked between each of them, then at Patton and Deceit. Remy must have left unannounced; that was okay. Emile would probably hunker down in his office after this to watch a movie. Maybe “Lilo and Stitch.” He needed something feel-good after this. Maybe some of the other characters would even join. That’d be nice.

What he NEEDED to do was diffuse the tension in here! Wouldn’t want them all stewing in this mystery for too long. Emile cleared his throat and stood up.

“How about we split up, gang? I’ll take the Romans all back to talk to Thief, and Deceit and Patton can stay here with Logan?” Emile looked up at Patton, then at Deceit, with a tiny smile waiting for verification. 

Deceit met his look with a small nod. “I agree. It would be best for us to talk to Logan alone.” 

“It’s been a long day,” the Artist voiced their collective thoughts, “We do need a breather.”

“That it has,” Logan said, clearing his throat and coughing a little. He lowered his hands into his lap and released a smidge of the tension in his shoulders, looking at Emile directly. “I….I agree with Dr. Picani. It would be more manageable to talk to fewer faces.”

“Well, then, alrighty,” Emile stood up, cracking his back as he did so, “Let’s blow this popsicle stand an’ head to Thief.”

He led the three Romans away, all of whom went quiet and guiltily. Patton and Deceit could hear Emile’s voice trailing off into gentle warnings about “he’s fine now, but just go easy on him, ‘cause it probably hurts, oh, what is ‘it,’ uh.”

Deceit waited until the door closed after them to let out an exhausted huff. 

That’s what this was. Exhausting. 

“C’mon, sit down,” Patton said, motioning to Logan’s other side on the couch, “Everyone else is gone. Think you can tell us what happened, teach?”

Logan exhaled. He could do that. It should be easy. Emphasis on should, because nothing about this, about reassembling Roman like a Lego set without instructions, was easy. Nothing about sword fighting was easy, either. 

Still, a process of facts would be easier for Logan to convey, which he did. He explained how he and Virgil had chased the Child and the Thief into an alley, how they’d encountered the Dragon, and how there’d been a fight. How it ended with Virgil and the Child being taken by the Dragon.

He also added, almost as an afterthought or almost betraying how much he didn’t want to be thinking about it, that the Thief had gotten a 27.65 centimeter gash across his chest, 6.43 centimeters at its deepest and deep enough to cut through part of his bone. Patton looked like he was going to faint, face paling at the image, and Logan jumped in to clarify. 

“It required magic to connect the bone back together, but it’s been handled thoroughly enough and Thief will heal fine. No vital organs were damaged, and he is currently laying on Dr. Picani’s other couch to regain the blood he lost,” he explained, now taking Patton’s hand into his own and squeezing. “He will heal fine.”

“I don’t doubt that, but, still….” Patton squeezed Logan’s hand, too, and then took his other. He held both of Logan’s hands in his own and pulled them close together, giving them small, reassuring squeezes. “I’m sorry you had to see that. It sounds horrible.”

Ah. Yes. Logan pursed his lips again and swallowed. No, he wouldn’t cry again. Not right now. “Thank you, Patton, but I’m handling this.”

Deceit cleared his throat, and the two looked up. He was scowling, eyes not distinctly watching anything, definitely not watching them, hair falling out of his hat again, definitely not distraught. It seemed that the bycocket fit worse than his bowler. 

“Just to clarify,” he said, and they both could hear that he was holding some thoughts back, “Virgil and Child are with Dragon.”

Logan pressed his mouth into a tight line. 

Of course Deceit would focus on that fact. He didn’t know what he had expected from Deceit. Sympathy? Unrealistic. This Imaginative excursion was turning him sentimental. Wanting things he would, should never receive.

“Yes,” he hated how tight his voice sounded.

Deceit nodded slowly. He was still trying to process Logan’s story, and how he appeared. Patton and Logan had been working together for a much longer time than himself; he had never seen Logan so distressed. The typical emotionless facade was gone. It was unnerving, almost. Like, he knew that the whole “emotionless” thing was a big lie but seeing the lie revealed was very different from just hoping.

He wanted to lean down, kneel down. Use his gloves to wipe away the logical side’s tears. Promise that everything would be okay. That they would retrieve Virgil and Roman and that all would be well. 

Woah, there, Deceit. One lie at a time, or you’re going to start tripping over yourself. You know you aren’t allowed to do that.

Patton, however, drew Logan’s attention once more, tapping him on the arm. He held his arms out in front of Logan’s chest, as an offer. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, voice soft, “Can I hug you?”

Logan blinked, slow. He wasn’t much for hugging, but physical comforting would probably aid him in lowering his pulse. And….Patton. After a long pause, Logan said “Yes.”

He leaned back on the couch, letting out a slow exhale and closing his eyes, letting Patton wrap his arms around his shoulders. If only he could sleep. That would benefit him greatly. They should have asked Remy to knock him unconscious before he left. He was less overwhelmed and more exhausted by the adrenaline and intense emotions he’d been wracked with. He began counting beats in his head, using Virgil’s breathing technique to slow his own oxygen intake.

Patton let Logan snuggle into his shoulder, trying to exude as much positivity as he could. This whole situation was like a swirling toilet flush, all his prior excitement about entering the Imagination going down the drain. He just wanted to make sure Logan was alright. 

That all of them were gonna get out of this alright.

“You know, I kinda wish we had a different first quest into the Imagination. This’ all a lot more, er,” what was the right word? “High-stakes. Than I’d’ve wanted it to be.” That wasn’t the right right word, but it was close enough.

He was worried that pointing out the seriousness of the quest would garner some sort of negative reaction, but Logan just nodded. In truth, they were all in agreement. It would have been easier to understand Roman had they understood the Imagination more, or if he’d just communicated how he felt. 

But well, Deceit was the only one bitterly remembering that none of them were adept at swallowing their pride. Including himself. 

“It’s too serious,” Patton continued, “I don’t want anyone getting hurt in here.”

“People have already been hurt, Patton,” Logan reminded him, voice lacking any bite.

And people would always be hurt, and there had to be something Deceit could do about that. The “best” thing to do would be to wait for the night. But what if something happened between now and then? Deceit couldn’t get the image that the Thief had described out of his mind. 

What would happen? Would the Dragon really dismember — he couldn’t think of that. No, Deceit had to protect them. 

It was a matter of pure self-preservation. That’s all.

Without warning, Deceit stood up, causing Logan and Patton to jump. He strode to the door and exited. 

Logan and Patton watched the door for a few seconds before realizing what had happened. Logan was the first one up, Deceit’s name halfway off his lips as he swung open the door. “Where are you going?” he asked, following.

“To get Virgil. Simple,” it was really not simple, not in the slightest.

“That….is a horrible idea. Nor is it simple,” Logan wanted to scream, because  he frankly regarded Deceit as one of his more coherent cohorts, less eccentric than Roman or Patton and more cohesive than Virgil. But this is a level of sacrificial that he didn’t anticipate the typically cautious and selfish Side could reach.

And, still, Deceit continued walking. He stopped at the top of the stairwell and took a deep breath.

“It is a simple idea. I’m going to be in and out, and,” if he didn’t confuse Logan further then he’d probably follow, and Deceit wouldn’t dare put any more of his... “If I die, I die.”

Logan spluttered. That didn’t make any sense. 

Deceit tried to escape, but was suddenly caught up in a pair of arms. Patton hugged him tight, pulling him back from the stairs. Less restraining him and more hugging him stationarily.

“Dee,” his voice was more desperate, “You can’t just go—”

“No one else seems to be acting with any urgency!” Deceit didn’t struggle in the hug, he didn’t want to hurt Patton or anything, but it was quite the annoyance. “Don’t you both understand? We’ve been thoroughly warned that Dragon is dangerous, and now we’re just going to leave Virgil with them to get tortured?”

Maybe the Dragon wouldn’t hurt Virgil, but Deceit wasn’t going to leave that to chance. His carelessness had led to Roman being literally shattered by insecurity as well. 

Gosh, he had really failed them. 

No, not failed. He hadn’t failed. Deceit didn’t fail, it wasn’t a thing he was allowed to do. He was simply going through a difficult disguise. 

And now he was going to make things better, and then he was going to slink back into the dark corners of Thomas’ mind where he so thrived, would go back to watching the other Sides with a yearning he chose to ignore.

“Of COURSE we do not want Virgil to be hurt,” Logan’s voice wasn’t offended, definitely not, not the least bit hurt by Deceit’s assumption, “But we cannot enter without a plan, either, and you cannot traverse the Imagination alone!”

“I can and I will, let go of me,” the second part was directed back at Patton as Deceit lowered a hand onto his arms and shoved. 

His grip was iron, though. The thoughts racing through Patton’s mind were like darts, trying to figure out the perfect bullseye explanation of what was nagging at his mind. Because, before they came into the Imagination, everything was a little more carefree. A little different. Oh, what was that?

“No. I–I, oh, hang on,” he grumbled into Deceit’s shoulder, holding him down and trying to word his emotions. Patton’s emotions, everyone’s emotions. Everyone was a little less wound up outside. But in here, it felt like everything was almost too dramatic! Between all the screaming and yelling, and all the swear words, goodness he stopped keeping track for the swear jar because there were so many. Like, 60 so far.

That was definitely bending the morals Patton liked upholding, of keeping things PG-13 and kid-friendly. What was wrong with him? What was wrong with all of THEM?

“Patton,” Deceit’s voice grumbled, bringing him back from his thoughts. “Are you planning to elaborate? Because, if not, then let me go.”

He sure was! If he could figure out how to make words work. 

Patton made a drawn-out “eh” sound, waving his hands back and forth as he tried to word it. “I think — and Logan can DEFINITELY back me up on this — it’s safer, is more logical, hurts less people, will hurt you less, will make me not cry, will make Virgil not angry, will make, uh….” he counted in his head, frowning against Deceit’s back, “Will make five out of seven Romans happier, if you wait for all of us to make a plan together.”

Logan hummed in approval with Patton’s statement, and Deceit squinted at them both

He couldn’t deny that Patton had a point. As the anger wore off, it was replaced with a frozen pit in Deceit’s stomach, chilling him to the bones with worry and a vague understanding. He wasn’t usually this worried. 

Perhaps it was due to Virgil’s absence. Virgil was the mediator of their worries. 

Or maybe it was something else. 

But even if it were something else, Deceit didn’t want to risk Virgil getting hurt. It wasn’t as though Virgil had never been hurt before. Deceit wasn’t malicious, but he certainly wasn’t doctile, and neither were either of the other concealed Sides. There were reasons he had to keep the veiled, after all. None of them were walks in the park. 

But this was a true villain, without the inhibitions of keeping Thomas running, in a world Roman had created to hurt himself.

….Deceit’s arms felt a little tingly in Patton’s grip. Was that typical of hugs? He had felt a little sore after the Bard that morning, too, but had chalked that up to it being an unusually long hug. 

You know, maybe hugs just weren’t his thing. It didn’t have anything to do with him not being hugged enough. And he wasn’t going to indulge that thought further. He wasn’t going to indulge himself.

“I think,” Patton’s voice cut into Deceit’s thought process again, softer now than earlier, “We’re all in a bad mindset.”

“Clearly. These circumstances are nothing like nothing within the reality that Thomas would have to face, and are nothing I have ever prepared for,” Logan responded, voice more level. 

“....You’re just gonna say that?” Patton sounded incredulous.

Deceit scowled, looking down from them, up at the walls, as Logan clarified that he was thoroughly prepared for every possible real-world scenario but wasn’t prepared for the “imaginative nonsense” that Roman’s world wrought. 

Patton was right, Deceit realized, far too right. They were simply in a bad mindspace. 

“I don’t want to pursue Virgil alone, but I refuse to let him stay with Dragon for any longer,” he stated, cutting off whatever tirade Logan had continued onto. “Patton, can you let go? I won’t run.” 

Both of them blinked at him, and Patton slowly released his extended hug. They had been serious, earlier, about accompanying him. But the more Logan considered the consequences of splitting up the team, the more he was wary. 

“I don’t think it would be wise for any of us to go without formulating a plan,” he said, holding a hand out to Deceit.

“Well, I’m not just leaving him. I can’t,” and Deceit then raised a hand to his own mouth, cursing himself behind his hand. 

Master of secrecy he was. Hopefully the other two wouldn’t—

“What do you mean, can’t.” Oof.

Deceit exhaled, shaking out his hand as he drew it away from his face, thinking of a cover-story. One came quick enough. “Wouldn’t it be dreadful if Thomas’ Anxiety was killed by his Ego?”  

That would throw off the scent and puts the situation in a different light. But it just made Deceit feel worse. 

It was stupid. He should have been consoling the others. HE didn’t need it.

Patton and Logan shared a glance. They both didn’t want Virgil to be hurt — alright, let’s stop beating around the bush here, they both love Virgil. Patton says it about ten times a day, and he’d swear off cookies if he were wrong about Logan loving Virgil, too! And they love Thomas. They don’t want Virgil getting hurt already, but they also don’t want Thomas getting hurt.

Logan nodded slightly toward Deceit, one of his eyebrows twitching up barely. 

It was a subtle expression, much too subtle for Patton to interpret, but he could definitely tell that Logan was asking something. Patton just shrugged. 

That didn’t seem to matter, as Logan nodded curtly and looked up to Deceit with a steady expression.

“Yes, but even you must admit that there are no preservation benefits to you going to rescue him alone. Plus, if we are staging a rescue, we should aim to retrieve Child and Damsel as well.”

“I–” he had forgotten that there were two others trapped. Now he was sheepish. A foolish oversight. “You’re right. We should. All the more reasons to go now.”

Logan shook his head. “You might have a sword, but Patton and I are unarmed and likely would not fight.”

“Oh, well, um, teach?” Logan and Deceit both looked at Patton, who was grinning sheepishly, “Sorry, but your Pop’s ready to pop off on Dragon. He’s been pretty bad, and bad Sides get grounded.”

Deceit snorted, but pressed his lips together harshly. The concept of Patton grounding someone, figuratively and literally, was ridiculous. 

Though he would pay real money to see the moral side knock someone out.

Oh gosh, that was an actual possibility in the Imagination. Deceit might be granted the opportunity of watching Patton kick the daylights out of someone. That pleased him way more than he’d like to admit.

Meanwhile, Logan just frowned. “Excuse me, you are going to unleash a confetti popper on Dragon? Why would you use a celebratory cracker as a weapon, in a world where weapons are readily available to us?”

Now it was Patton’s turn to facepalm himself, rubbing his own forehead. “Ah, sorry! Pop off’s another one of those modern slang terms the kids’re using these days, maybe a good one for the notecards?”

Logan nodded, conjuring his set of notecards and taking notes as Patton explained. “It’s when you’ve got a lot of stuff bottled up inside of you, usually some kinda anger, and then something upsets you enough for that figurative bottle to open. Like a cap popping off? I think that’s the entropy.”

“The….etymology?”

“The entomology!”

“Getting closer. Etymology.”

Patton grinned a little and shrugged again. “That.”

“I see,” Logan fixed his glasses, “Also, to ‘pop off’ can also be defined as engaging in a physical altercation?”

“In some cases!” 

“Mmm.” 

Logan slipped the notecards away again and clapped once. “Well. Thank you for that, Patton,” he turned to Deceit, who’d been watching and listening with a vacantly fond expression, and motioned to him with both of his hands, “Returning to the original subject matter, Patton and I are still unarmed, and would not be of service while you storm a literal castle. If we want to guarantee Virgil, Child, and Damsel’s safety, then we need to outline a plan.”

“Oh, so just because you took a little vocabulary learning break, we’re ignoring the high-stakes of everyone being in peril?” Deceit asked, fixing his hat and forcing himself back into a scowl, “You’ve got no sense of urgency and we can’t have that out in a duel.” 

“Do you?” Logan crossed his arms. This debate was actually helping him feel better about their future prospects. “Having a sense of urgency is Virgil’s job. Ours, together, is to concoct a longer but more cohesive plan.”

Logan’s voice is, as always, too level. He’s much too aware for his own good, Deceit thought, and his own frustration returned tenfold.

“Virgil isn’t here to do that job, so I’m taking it up!” he gestured to himself with his thumb, but stopped midway through the motion. He’s just as flippant and it’s proving Logan’s point. Slowly, he drew his hands back to his chest and exhaled sharply, saying with fervor  “We must get him back.”

Patton’s head turns back to Logan when he lets out his own frustrated exhalation. There was something here. He was on to something, but Patton just couldn’t figure out the pieces. Meanwhile, Logan and Deceit’s argument continued before him.

“If you’re so concerned about preserving all of us, as a group, for the betterment of Thomas, then why are you going to such lengths to put yourself in a position of unsafety to save another Side? I don’t understand.”

“Because we can’t let him get hurt, isn’t that obvious?” 

“I agree, but I want to hear your explanation. Why not?” Logan asked.

It was a simple question, but it struck a chord much deeper in Deceit than it should have. It almost made him feel ashamed at how angry he was. 

He HADN’T failed.

“I’ll die before I let Virgil be hurt again,” his voice came out as more hiss than enunciation. “Any of you.”

Deceit’s declaration hung in the air for a second before he realized what he said. You could almost pinpoint the moment he realized he’d said too much, as he turned back around to the stairs, if only to face away from the pair.

“Oh?”

Please, please don’t bring it up. Deceit considered possible alternative stories. Some kind of lie about the other Dark Sides, perhaps? Logan and Patton weren’t as familiar with them as he was, he could definitely make something up about how they interacted, something about their hostility.

“Deceit?”

“Deceit,” one of them grabbed his arm, likely Patton, “Hey, kiddo, you’re okay.”

Curse his pride. Deceit wanted to tear his arm out of whoever was holding him’s grip because the burning indignity of his confession was making the weird feeling return in full force. 

He wanted to grip his cloak and hide his hands again, so they couldn’t see them shake. Why were his hands shaking, anyway? He didn’t have anything to hide. Why would he hide?

Patton swallowed. ‘Any’ of you. Deceit was an actor, same as Roman, so Patton always had a hard time figuring out what to make of him. So this was a hunch. Just a hunch.

Just a hunch and a little hope.

“I don’t,” he looked at Logan, who was frowning at Deceit as one would an unsolvable puzzle, “I don’t understand.”

That was okay. “It’s a hard thing to understand,” Patton found himself responding, grin growing, “Love’s a queer thing.”

Deceit groaned. Logan rolled his eyes, though his cheeks tinged pink. None of the tension was lifted.

“That’s absurd,” he murmured, talking about the pun.

“Is it?” Patton whispered, talking about something more. 

That drew both of their attentions back to him, with confused, expressions wrapped in a special kind of denial. 

Was he strong enough to admit it? It was funny, in the same way that adultery or the puppets were, because Patton wasn’t known for admitting things. 

Baby steps. He couldn’t scare himself or either of the other two away.

“Deceit,” he said, looking at the other with a firm expression as Deceit turned over his shoulder, “Once we’re, uh, out of the Imagination….d’ya think it’d be okay if we moved your bedroom to the Mind Palace? With the rest of us?”

Forward, but careful. Deceit blinked, leaning back only a little, only in surprise. 

How tender a way for Patton to invite him into their lives. 

He stepped back around, expression guarded. 

Logan looked up from Patton to Deceit, less guarded and more stepping back. This was curious indeed. That tightness in his chest returned. He didn’t quite understand what Patton’s offer meant — of course, it would be beneficial for Deceit to have a room in their Mind Palace, so he could be central in conversations if he was choosing to become more prevalent in Thomas’ decisionmaking. There must have been another reason behind it, however, because his pulse was quickening once more. His fists closed at his sides and he could feel how sweaty his palms were. Was he nervous? For what? 

You know what, maybe Logan was just allergic to the Imagination. That’s why his hormones were being regularly imbalanced and causing visceral physical reactions to emotional stimuli. 

Patton smiled a tiny bit more, and offered his hand to Deceit. “I think,” he started again, gentle as ever, “Roman would take it personally if we left without him. ‘Cause he’s worried about Virgil, too.”

Deceit looked at his hand, then up at Patton. 

Inclusion. Teamwork, like he’d preached earlier. 

He wasn’t ready to admit what he truly wanted. Deceit wasn’t personally selfish. But he could….he would allow himself to indulge in the thought of wanting to be wanted. 

He took Patton’s hand, and Patton pulled him a little closer. 

“Fine.”

Patton smiled. 

“Hey!” the trio turned back to the door to see the Artist poking his head out, “Where’re you guys going?”

“Nowhere!” Patton chirped back, waving his other hand, “We just wanted some fresh air!”

Logan and Deceit shared another look. It was best to keep this agreement to themselves, for now. They wouldn’t want to overwhelm any of the others. 

“Okay, uh. Well,” the Artist jogged out to join them.

His hood was pulled over his head, tugged into a small opening where only his face was visible. He looked around at Patton, then Deceit, then Logan, and nudged Logan slightly with his elbow. “I never got to say, um. I’m sorry. For getting mad at you this morning.”

That felt like so long ago, and so much had happened since then, Logan had almost forgotten that it was all the same day. He nodded slowly. “Of course. While it was an unconventional and fairly belligerent method of relaying your discomfort, I understand why you reacted in such a way.”

He opened his mouth to continue, but then closed it again and clenched his jaw tight as the headache came back once more. What WAS that? Logan waited for it to dull back once more before continuing, “I will avoid making similar observations in the future.”

“Uh, thanks,” the Artist watched him with worry for a few seconds before looking around the trio again and stuffing his hands further into his pockets, “Should we go inside? We need to outline what we’re gonna do.”

“Awh, outline? ‘Cause you’re an artist?” Patton asked, his usual cheeky grin returning, “I’m proud of that one!”

The Artist rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah, whatever, Pop Rocks. Let’s just get inside. Bard and Thief miss you guys.”

He turned away, leading them back to normalcy with a slight new understanding of each other.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *vibrates excitedly* people are getting things and we're finally getting some heart-to-hearts. 
> 
> ALSO!!!! AN UPDATE!!! usually these chapters go up pretty fast, but the next update will also take A While to come out, because i'm going to be moving! specifically, im studying abroad right now and am in the middle of finals, so im writing these between studying and packing to go home at the end of this week. 
> 
> im going to write A Lot on the airplane but that all also means that this is coming late, the next one'll be coming late. in a few weeks we should return to normalcy as i reestablish a routine in my IRL situation.
> 
> id just like to say thanks for bearing with me through this!!! ilu y'all and im so fuckin hyped for the next chapter y'alL— <3 <3 <3 <3


	15. something there

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: self-deprecation, mentions of wounds — i don't think there's much in this one, but please let me know if there's anything else y'all want tagged!
> 
> 👏🏼COME👏🏼GET👏🏼Y'ALLS👏🏼FLUFF👏🏼 this is SUCH a fluffy chapter im LIVING!!! all these slow moments are so much fun i'm actually just soft rn. gOd. 
> 
> also, realizing that this probably isn't slow burn. since it like. happens over the course of a day and a half. there're just hints that they've all been either pining or in denial for forever . so whoops lmao 
> 
> that being said, enjoy !!! <3 <3 <3 <3 <3  
> EDIT: i just found out i can add strike throughs to AO3 stories — this' been UPDATED !!!!

“Maybe you shouldn’t go to the ball tonight.”

The Thief shot the Bard another glare and turned his head to face the ceiling again. They’d been talking about the ball for about an hour. The Playwright had gone as soon as they’d explained, saying he didn’t like spending too much time in the Imagination’s action grounds, and the Artist then left to find the other Sides. 

If the Thief didn’t go with them, they wouldn’t have any protection. No one was willing to fight, much less fight the Dragon, and no one else alive could go toe to toe with him. 

But your wound….

Fuck off. 

It stings, doesn’t it?

“You know that doesn’t matter,” he said aloud.

“It matters so much,” the Bard whispered back.

He shifted, hand resting along the Thief’s tummy. After the Artist left, the Bard opted to lay down next to the Thief, hugging him as gently as he could around the stomach as to not jostle the bandages wrapped tight around the Thief’s chest. 

Sure, the Bard sung a ditty, used as much magic as the setting would allow, making sure the gash didn’t hurt and didn’t bleed and would heal quick. But he’d always had a soft spot for the Thief. They got along better than anticipated, given how fiery they were. He didn’t want the Thief feeling any sort of pain. Plus, pain wasn’t really their thing. 

“How’s Logan?” the Thief asked, for the fifth time.

Seeing Logan in distress had upset him more than the actual wound. The Bard clicked his tongue, almost annoyed at the Thief’s apathy for himself.

“Wonderfully,” the Bard promised, “He’s with Patton and Deceit, and they’re taking care of him.”

“Better than we would.”

“You could say that again.”

Distantly, they heard a door opened and closed again. That was likely the Artist coming back, the Bard thought, and he gently squeezed the Thief’s side. “Should I go check on them?” he whispered.

He felt the Thief shrug against him. 

Laying like this was calming. A little depressing as Roman realized he was cuddling against himself, but, well. What can you do. They both elected to wait until someone came in from the foyer, where the Artist had led everyone into and was now making six mugs of tea.

Logan was the last to enter, closing the door behind himself. Another throb of pain jolted through his head, and he couldn’t stifle a quiet groan. It felt like something was pushing on the inside of his skull, trying to break out. 

“Logan?” he heard Deceit ask.

He was leaning on the door now, hand still gripping the handle as he rested his forehead and tried to stop feeling dizzy. He squeezed his eyes shut tight as the fluorescent lights were just a bit too bright for him to handle. This was the worst bout yet. 

Multiple hands grabbed him, leading him slowly back to the couch he’d been at prior. 

“Logan, honey?” Patton asked. 

He laid down on the couch, shifting as the hands left. How expedient of a situation. The pain subsided only slightly, returning to sit in the back of his cranium. 

“Yo, Professor Plum, are you going to say something?” the Artist said. 

They all were sitting now, Deceit on the coffee table, Patton on the ground beside the couch and the Artist on the couch’s armrest. Logan’s eyes were still closed, but he lifted his thumb up, resting his hand on his stomach, and all of their shoulders loosened. 

“I have a headache,” Logan stated, “That is all. It will pass.”

The trio all looked worriedly at each other, gesturing at one another as though asking if they’d heard about this headache. As it became more and more apparent that this was news to all of them, Patton turned back to Logan. He knew how to deal with Logan’s occasional headaches, often brought on from Thomas overthinking things or having to deal with strenuous mental exercises. Or Taxes. It was tax season, after all.. 

“Darn. What kinda tea is that?” Patton asked, gesturing to the cups, “Do you have any peppermint?”

The Artist bit his lip and waved his hand over the cup. The scent, which had been light and fruity, shifted into mint. “Now it is,” he said, worry ebbing into his voice, “Is there anything else we can do?”

“How long have you had this headache?” Deceit asked, still watching Logan.

“Since we entered the Imagination. It was small, when we woke up in that forest yesterday,” Logan rubbed his forehead and took off his glasses, “Patton, can you hold these?”

Patton took them wordlessly and set them on the coffee table. 

“And you stated earlier that you’ve never been in the Imagination?” Deceit asked again. 

Patton glanced at him. Deceit was, once again, taking notes. Well, more like poking his pen against a specific page in his notepad. 

“Yes. I have never been here before.”

“Ah.” Deceit circled something on the page and poked his pen against it again.

“Ah?” the Artist asked, brow furrowing, “Ah, like, ‘ah, by Jove, I’ve got it’ kinda ah?”

It was Deceit’s job to ‘get it,’ as the Artist put it. But now he had to explain what was wrong. 

Something Deceit was very well known for being bad at. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but was first interrupted by Logan.

“Have YOU been in the Imagination before?”

Deceit bobbed his head to either side, thinking. “Yes. I have,” no need for details.

“Roman let you in?” Patton sounded surprised, and Deceit waved his hand.

“No, of course not.” and he was cut off again, this time by the Artist with a clearing of the throat. An incredibly offended clearing of the throat. 

“Yeah, no, we don’t let just anyone in. Do you see how much work we’ve put into this place? It’s more elaborate than the Marvel Cinematic Universe. You’ve come in a few times, just to help with memories in dreams, right? Virgil’s helped with a few nightmares. But mostly it’s just me. And….well,” the Artist pursed his lips and waved his hand, indicating ‘you know.’

Before anyone could ask follow up questions, he stood up. “I’m, uh, I’m gonna go check on Thief and Bard.”

The Thief, the Bard....wait, that was just three Romans. Deceit frowned up at the Artist’s retreating back, switching gears for a moment. “Where’s the Playwright?” 

“He doesn’t like being, uh, on stage. His words,” the Artist’s eyes flicked up for a second, before looking back at Deceit, “He’s also grabbing costumes for the ball tonight.”

The three Sides vaguely remembered the incredibly long corridor of costumes and the extended process of trying to dress for the medieval setting.

Logan frowned. The “medieval” setting indeed. It was so historically inaccurate that he was taking a running count of the innacuracies that seem to be without a Doylist explanation, and had been considering what the historically plausible alternatives were. What kinds of outfits would be accurate for a ball, though? 

He winced again, closing his eyes and laying down again as the headache bounded back in full force. 

Deceit, Patton, and the Artist all looked back at him. Truthfully, the Artist felt guilty; Logan seemed to be doing fine before he arrived, so the increase in headache-induced-acheing was probably connected to him. Somehow.

“I’m gonna bring Thief and Bard some tea,” he mumbled, picking up two of the mugs, “Sorry the Imagination sucks, Logan.”

And he darted away before any of them could tell him to not. 

Patton blinked, looking around. He could have sworn the Artist was just with them. Oh, he must have left. 

Had Logan had his tea? Patton had zoned out for a little there and hadn’t noticed. He shifted how he was sitting on the ground, pulling his knees up to his chest and looking around the room again. 

Where were they again?

Dr. Picani’s office, oh, yeah.

Where had the Artist gone?

“Artist….?” Patton hummed, quiet and to himself as to not interrupt the other two.

“Now,” Deceit seemed unphased by the Artist’s quick exit, turning back to Logan with his notepad, “It came back? Just now?”

“Yes. Stop talking for a second, please,” Logan raised a finger. 

Deceit nodded and puffed up his cheeks, looking up and around at the room. His eyes eventually landed on Patton, who was still looking around, vaguely confused. But now he was more confused about why he was so confused because, like, of COURSE he saw the Artist leave. Patton’s eyes refocused, blinking at Deceit. He waved one hand.

At first, Deceit’s expression didn’t change, and Patton lowered his hand. But then, slowly, Deceit blinked at him, then stuck his tongue out slightly.

“Blep,” Patton whispered.

Deceit smirked, and winked. Blep indeed.

Patton slapped his hand over his own mouth, stifling his giggles as Logan lowered his hand. “Alright. I am okay.”

“Good,” Deceit said, turning his attention quickly back to the logical side, “Now, actually, Patton.”

Patton perked up. “Mhm?”

“Do you feel any difference?” Deceit crossed his legs where he sat, pen sitting on his notepad as he waited. 

Patton tilted his head in thought, then shook it. “Not like a headache or anything,” he made a gesture with his hands, as though he were pulling something apart between them, “It’s like….like. A feelings-y thing. I’m feeling a little more airheaded than usual? You know, like how you feel right after we binge-watch The Office.”

Deceit watched him blankly. He didn’t have the heart to tell Patton that that made absolutely no sense because he wasn’t the overseer of Thomas’ emotional interpretation, so he just nodded. 

“Patton,” he turned to Logan, who was gesturing into the air above him while laying down, “I do not know what the fuck that means.”

And there Logan was with the incredibly tired realism. Patton deflated. “Oh,” he hummed, frowning at the ground as he thought of a new way to explain the sensation.

Honestly, it’d been building, like a burp. There were a lot of things going on he didn’t agree with, and a lot of things that plain hurt, but there were weird things he’d never felt before. 

Patton hummed angrily behind his lips, drumming his fingers against his chin for a moment in thought. What kinds of feelings had he never felt before? How would he know?

Gosh, that didn’t even make sense to him. Patton was getting his thoughts wrapped in a tizzy. He balled up his hands in his lap and tried again.

“Well, it’s like….like you’ve just experienced so much that you KNOW! You know you know what’s going to happen, but it still happens and you still feel everything, but not as big as before, like it’s an echo? Almost? It feels like I can kinda feel everything a lot always. And on top of that, I feel like I’m letting a lot more slide. Like, earlier. I know you’ve got a headache, but language.”

Logan sighed tiredly and Patton waved his hands a little frantically, backtracking. “I know! But I didn’t really register that! I had to think about it! But usually I can just, ya know, know, and usually you’d know too, right? It’s like what I’m feeling and what I’d USUALLY feel about things are all wonky, so I’m sensing things and feeling things a lot slower than usual.”

Logan exhaled, then rubbed his face with both of his hands.

That made only the tiniest modicum of sense. 

Well, it made perfect sense to the person who’d been looking for that answer. Deceit jotted down another note and exhaled, nice and slow. Eureka, he supposed.

How was he going to synthesize this in an understandable way?

“Logan, Patton, remember how surprised Bard, Thief, and Child were earlier, over how time was moving at a regular rate?” Deceit asked them both, looking up from his notes and raising an eyebrow. 

“Uh, huh. They said it’d been a whole week but you said it’d only been a few hours,” Patton crossed his legs on the ground and leaned back on the couch, head resting beside Logan’s shoulder.

“Exactly. And that time thing changed, what, when we first arrived here?” 

Logan raised an eyebrow. He still had his eyes closed, despite the fact that his headache had eased up once more. It was just pleasantly calming at this point. “Do you think our arrival into the Imagination had something to do with the time scale changing?”

Oh good, Logan got it instantaneously. Deceit clapped, nodding excitedly. “Yes!”

“But I dunno how to change anything in here. If we’re not trying to change things, then why’re they changing?” Patton slumped, knitting his eyebrows together in thought and tapping Logan’s hand, “You know anything about that, kiddo?”

“I’m afraid I have to confess ignorance to how the Imagination works. On this side, I assumed Roman controlled everything.”

That was valid; Deceit couldn’t profess to being an expert either, but what other explanation was there? He had other evidences, too. “But do you both remember how the town looked when we first arrived? Or the forest?”

Patton watched Deceit as his brows pinched even tighter. He was really trying to remember, and he knew what he thought it’d looked like, but he wasn’t sure. It did look different this morning compared to yesterday evening, too, but he couldn’t pinpoint in what ways.

“Not quite,” he made a so-so hand motion. “It sure looks different, though, but I dunno how.”

“I cannot either,” Logan said. “It looked like a town, but I cannot remember any precise details.”

“Neither can I, but that’s the point,” Deceit twirled his pen in the air, as though circling the town, “We know what it looks like now! It’s got detail.”

“Yes, possibly because we’ve been in the town for longer. It stands to reason that, the longer we are in an environment, the more that environment becomes familiar,” getting much farther away now, Logan, “That seems more likely than our entrance into the Imagination impacting the physical landscape.”

“Not just the physical landscape,” Deceit huffed, annoyed now as he crossed his arms, “I think all of us are adding our own assets to whatever story Roman’s trying to tell in here.”

Logan scowled at the ceiling. That was possible, but in Logan’s opinion, less plausible. He and Patton had no idea how to change things, especially how to change the things that Roman had so painstakingly built. 

In theory, it shouldn’t be any harder than striking a red line through it, similar to how he would when editing one of Roman’s scripts. But in practice, Logan wouldn’t know where to begin or what sorts of — he cringed — feelings it would envoke. 

COULD their very presence in the Imagination be changing it? His headaches usually stemmed from being overworked. Could he, as a Side, be overcompensating for the lack of Logic in an Imagination purely overrun by Creativity? 

Logan frowned at the ceiling. He would have to concede to Deceit — his theory made sense, the more Logan considered it.

Deceit looked from Logan to Patton, who was flapping his knees up and down while he sat. When he met Deceit’s eyes, he shrugged apologetically. Patton was still zipping slowly in and out of understanding; he’d always attributed that to the Imagination because, well, that’s just how the Imagination had always been for him. And implying that Roman’s imagination would be hurting them? That didn’t make sense! Roman would never, he wasn’t evil!

“I just thought it was ‘cause it was the Imagination. I wouldn’t want to change anything about what Roman’s making. Plus, Roman always talks about how creation doesn’t make sense, ya know,” he fixed his glasses and held his legs with both hands. 

“Does it not, or does Roman think it wouldn’t make sense to us?” Deceit asked. The uncertainty that passed over Patton’s face was interrupted by a cold question.

“What doesn’t make sense to you?” 

Deceit and Patton both looked over to the door, where the Artist had returned from the other room. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, posture rigid. 

Numbly, Deceit wondered how much he’d heard. The Artist met his gaze with a hardened glare, but nodded to the other room. “Thief wants to talk to you,” he stated, “Just you. And I wanna talk to Logan and Patton.”

The Artist had heard enough to be vaguely upset that they were talking about him behind his back. 

Deceit sighed and climbed off of the coffee table finally. He’d die before sitting in a seat correctly. 

“Fine. Maybe they’ll understand what I’m trying to say,” he stated, giving Patton a look that plainly read ‘Think about it or I’ll stab you with this sword.’

You know what, Patton took back the thing about Deceit being an actor. That anger was thinly veiled at best. 

But he also loved him. 

So Patton smiled at Deceit and blew him a small kiss. 

He absolutely hadn’t expected Deceit’s eyes to widen, nor for him to walk straight into the wall beside the hallway and sputter in indignation. 

Deceit slid into the other room quickly, avoiding the Artist. Which was fine. Completely. Fine.

The Artist walked back and sat down on the ground, beside Patton. He leaned his head back and nudged Logan’s hip. “Your head still hurt, Cranium Command?” he asked, voice much softer and….was that guilt?

Well, they couldn’t have the Artist blaming himself for a quandary he had no hand in. Plus, that was quite the Disney-rooted nickname, and Logan couldn’t deny that he was pleased with it. He shook his head with a quiet hum. “A little, but not as forcefully.”

“That’s good. Uh,” the Artist held one of his knees, letting the other leg straighten out beneath the table, “Playwright actually wanted me to ask why you haven’t looked at his book more often.”

“Oh?”

“Worm?” Patton added.

The Artist snorted, giving him a soft smile and nudging his arm. This Roman was real different, in Patton’s mind. So quiet and unsure of himself outside of the persona he’d built for himself, that of a worker. His smiles were like those tiny ones Roman would give, when wrapped beneath his arms, or when receiving praise for a job well done. 

He unthinkingly straightened the strings on the Artist’s hoodie, humming quietly, and the Artist took one of his hands. 

Before anything else, though, Logan grunted. Both of them scooted forward, letting Logan swing his legs carefully between them. “Let us peruse this book, then,” he murmured, taking the book from his coat once more. 

“Oh, yeah, THAT book!” Patton said, pointing to it. 

His hand lowered as they saw the cover. 

“Woah,” the Artist murmured, “Interesting design. I would have coated everything in the same level of golden foil, though. It’s a little unbalanced right now.”

Every bit of Roman’s crest was visible to some extent, indicating that they’d met everyone. That must mean, Logan realized, Virgil met the Damsel. He didn’t know if that alleviated some of his worries about never finding that particular Roman, or if it worried him that the center tower of the castle was the most blank portion of the entire crest. 

Should he point it all out? Would that be awkward, with the Artist present? The ocean’s (or was it a lake, because of the lake outside of the town’s walls) waves were present as a flat yellow color, not glittering but at least with vibrantly visible lines. The most bold part, glowing golden, was still the central spiralling sun. 

A part of Logan’s chest loosened, knowing that they hadn’t failed the Child, that he still believed in them all. In all honesty, seeing the entire crest, even the Dragon’s thin golden castle wall outlines, comforted some part of him that was worried they’d never reassemble Roman. 

Pattn pressed a finger to the cover. 

“What’s this all mean again?” he asked, brow furrowing in concentration.

He couldn’t, for the life of him, remember what the entire book was for. Which was super bad, considering the Playwright had given it to them yesterday. 

In his defense, though, it’d been a LONG, long, long, long, long day.

This was definitely going to get awkward. Logan didn’t particularly care, though; if the Artist had qualms with it, he would have to take it up with the Playwright. “The cover indicates how much we’ve ‘convinced’ every form of Roman that we appreciate his existence,” Logan explained.

“Ah.” The Artist’s voice was eerily level. 

“Oh, yeah! Wow, the Child really likes us,” Patton drew his finger along the outer edge of the crest, a thin line of ink in the indentation that was barely glowing, “What’s who?”

“We broke it up ourselves, I’m the waves,” the Artist pointed out himself, intrigue growing as he looked over the cover once more, “Interesting. I, uh. Wow. Interesting plot device.”

“That is likely why the Playwright is upset with me not using it as often. I did not expect this excursion to last for long, nor for it to go as fast as it is,” Logan rubbed the back of his neck, gently rubbing the spot where his neck connected to his skull.

The motion was not missed by Patton. “D’ya want a massage while you read?” he offered, standing up slowly.

Ah. Logan blinked up at Patton’s blurry face. Had he been able to see, he would have seen the gentle and ultimately fond smile he wore. “That would be lovely, Patton. Thank you,” he leaned forward and took his glasses from the table, slipping them back on as Patton climbed up onto the couch, sitting on the top of it behind Logan. 

His hands rested gently on Logan’s shoulders, then slid closer to his neck. A good call, to start with — oh, Patton was so gentle. Logan let the tension leave his shoulders and tried to focus on the book. If he thought too hard about the fact that Patton was intimately touching his shoulders….AND, if he thought about how much he was being touched currently, with the Artist’s head resting on his thigh, Patton’s hands on his back…

He straightened his back a little more and sniffed. Too many emotions today. 

“Looks like Bard’s bein’ a little bratty baby,” the Artist pointed to the mountains, dim in the crest’s background.

“His apprehension is valid. Trust should be earned,” Logan responded, raising his eyebrow at the Artist’s quoting, “I find that it is surprising that Dragon trusts us at all. Perhaps Virgil has spoken with him. If we were ranking….”

His eyes flicked to the Artist, who raised an eyebrow expectantly. “Give us your top seven Roman belief list,” he said, as though trying to comfort Logan’s worry.

“I’d like to hear, those lines do kinda look the same to me,” Patton added from behind, knees on either side of Logan’s shoulders giving him an awkwardly placed squeeze. 

The succor helped, at least. Logan blinked in place of a nod and looked back at the cover. “It appears that Child trusts us most, followed by you. Then it is Thief, and then Bard, then Playwright, Dragon, and Damsel.”

Patton sighed. He was still upset that the Playwright was feeling so disconnected from them. He’d actually been looking forward to spending some downtime with him, have an open discussion about what he wanted. Last time must have been dragged down by the need to, what’d he say? 

Provide exposition. Yeah! 

After all, Patton didn’t want to leave him waiting in the wings. 

He snorted to himself, leaning forward and almost pressing his head to Logan’s, before he stopped mid motion. That’d be bad, they had boundaries and all! He straightened up and cleared his throat. 

Playwright needed his turn in the spotlight. 

Patton let out a quiet laugh and shook his head.

“Well,” the Artist hummed, after they’d both starred at the cover for a few quiet seconds, “Open it.”

Ah. Right. Logan flicked the book open. The Artist said “ah” quietly and added, “Playwright mentioned the Author’s Notes. Didn’t say anything about reading it, but I’d recommend reading something with notes from him.”

That was the first section added. Logan suspected that that had been originally crossed off, before they even found the town, because it was written directly below the scribbled out section. He flipped the book’s pages, expecting only a few notes. Why would the Playwright write them authors’ notes if he was planning to visit them? 

The answer was more clear when he reached the page. The Artist whistled low, and Patton winced. “Oh, boy,” he murmured above Logan’s head. 

Logan simply didn’t react. 

The pages were full of notes, some scribbled out, some written large, some written hastily, some blotted out with water. Perhaps tears? The first note was written clearly, marked with a date and time even.

_“I hope you understand, but I would prefer not to enter the Imagination. I like to remove myself  from the narrative. :)”_

Of course, a Hamilton reference. Logan chuckled quietly and continued reading the notes aloud.

_“Now that you’ve found the Thief’s tree, it shouldn’t be too hard to locate the other figments. Do you need assistance?”_

~~_“Please?”_ ~~

“It’s crossed out?” Patton asked, pointing to the note. 

Logan nodded. “Yes, it is. Do you know why?” he directed the last part to the Artist and was met with a shrug. The strikeouts only continued, some in thick scribbles, but others in neat and crisp lines that left the words semi-legible beneath.

 _“Apparently not._ _~~These notes may be useless, but~~ _ _Then again, it’s not like_ _Roman_ _the Bard, the Thief, and the Child are good at hiding. The Damsel will be most difficult to find.”_

 _“Good call with the guards._ _~~I miss you all already. I think I gave you a pen, in your coat? Or you could just speak. I’ll hear you.~~ _ _”_

 _“Please, tell Patton to not worry too much. Virgil and Deceit have found the Thief and are enroute to his tree; they will be safe. I would actually recommend going there instead of staying with the Artist. He is difficult to handle, at best, and atrocious at worst._ ”

The Artist scoffed and pointed at the note. “Go write a chorus,” he hissed, turning to the sky and flipping it off. 

“Roman!” Patton scolded him, stopping his massaging and putting a hand over the Artist’s. While the Artist rolled his eyes, Logan continued. 

_“And you’re going to the Artist’s house. I would recommend that you don’t speak ill of his paintings, they’re all he has to live for.”_

_“I know I said I didn’t want to come to the Imagination, but the Artist is speaking ill of you, and I’m going to go fight him. If you need anything, please let me know.”_

_“You know, you’re allowed to pass this book to any of the others, too, Logan. It’s not just for you. I know you’re_ ~~_obsessed_ _in love with_ _might eat_~~ _fond of books, but I would prefer this book in the hands of someone who will interact with it.”_

“That’s absurd. Who would he have had me pass this book onto?” Logan mumbled, rubbing his jaw.

The Artist shrugged. “He was probably getting emo. Sad you weren’t reading his dumb lil’ book, as though it’s not the most useless method of communication ever. What kinda video game tutorial.”

“It’s pretty stylish, though. I like it!” Patton said with a grin.

_“What’s the point of even warning you about that if you’re not going to read this to notice.”_

_“I guess you’re never going to read this.”_

Logan hummed quietly. It was getting more and more distressing.

_“Why would you? Roman’s only a nuisance. And I’m part of him, aren’t I. Can’t hide that!”_

_“I promise I’m_ _not just a nuisance. I’m better. I’m the better one. Right?”_

_“Roman’s ~~better.”~~_

~~_“Oh, God, what if being a nuisance is so crucial to being Roman that all of us are nuisances. That would make sense, given how ridiculous this whole situation is. We’re such idiots. I’m such an idiot, why would I listen_ ~~

~~_“I guess I’m not going to succeed at this contest! I’m not dumb enough to be Roman. Hah!”_ ~~

~~_“It’s almost a solace that no one’s ever going to read this.”_ ~~

~~_“Team Work makes the Dream Work. Cute. Tell Virgil that’s cute. I love him.”_ ~~

~~_“I’m sorry for yelling at the Artist. I’ll tell him myself soon, but I also wanted to tell you, because Patton and Logan heard. I want to be useful, somehow.”_ ~~

~~_“The most striking difference between Roman and I is”_~~ the following text was so scribbled out it was illegible. Everything was crossed out. Red lines were appearing on all of the text, actually. 

“He’s crossing it all out right now,” Patton mumbled into Logan’s hair.

He’d given up rubbing his shoulders and was now simply sitting atop the couch, legs cradling Logan’s shoulders. 

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of what you’ve written,” Logan said, seemingly to no one. Neither of them, at least.

The Artist looked up at him. 

“If you would like to speak honestly to us, then please do. I understand that trust must be earned, but how can we prove ourselves trustworthy without any chances to do so? You have been incredibly helpful. These notes would have been indicative of the path we should have taken, and it’s on us….it is my fault that we did not know,” Logan drummed his fingers against the book’s side, “We would like to talk with you more. And not just through a book.”

The lines stopped. The Artist sat up, watching the page, then looking up at Logan. His lip was quirked up slightly; he knew what he’d said.

A small arrow appeared on the bottom of the page, pointing to the edge of the book. Logan flipped the page.

At the top of the new blank page was more writing.

_“Thanks for checking eventually.”_

“It is my pleasure. My one concern with the book was that it would provide information we already knew,” Logan felt Patton squeeze his shoulders with his knees, “For example, the Dragon’s section is fairly nondescript. However, if you are uncomfortable with entering this level of the Imagination directly, then we can surely communicate via the book.”

More writing appeared, then was smudged. 

They could almost imagine the Playwright swearing at himself for smudging the ink.

_“Okay. Thank you.”_

Not taking more chances, hm. Logan hummed, patting the book. 

“Thank you for your ingenuity,” he responded.

Patton turned his attention to the Artist, while Logan comforted the Playwright by speaking to the air. It seemed that they didn’t need the pen, after all. The Artist was starring hard at the book, jaw set in an angry disgruntlement. 

“Hey, Artist?”

“Mh?” he looked up at Patton, pushing his glasses up tiredly.

There was still something Patton couldn’t really understand about the Playwright’s writings. He slid down beside the Artist and held open an arm, an offering for if the Artist wanted a hug. 

To which he shook his head with an apologetic frown. Not much of a hugger. Patton smiled, that was okay, and patted the Artist’s knee.

“What did he mean, about not being Roman?” he asked. “I thought all of you were Roman.”

The Artist frowned and, for a second, Patton was a little worried he didn’t understand what he was asking. But then the Artist seemed to have a lightbulb moment, eyes lighting with understanding, before he scowled again. 

“I don’t really….know, know. The whole point of all of this is that we WERE Roman,” the Artist rubbed the back of his neck, looking sidelong at the door, “I mean, the ways we’re connected to him differ. And the, uh, the levels of how much we exist as being in Thomas’ mind versus as Imagination creations is wild. I don’t know how real we are in terms of being real parts of Roman. It’s kinda hard to explain.”

“Sounds like it,” Patton nodded sympathetically, “Some of y’all don’t feel like Roman?”

The Artist shook his head. “I’d argue that none of us feel like Roman. Not really. We just all want to feel like Roman, so we say we do. One of us’ gotta be Roman enough, right?”

Alright, now he lost Patton. Before he could ask further, though, the door at the end of the hall banged open as the Bard jumped out, startling the other three. 

“Whoops!” he called and lunged into the room with one leg, “Sorry about that, darlings, but we need you in the room pronto.”

* * *

 

“Fine. Maybe they’ll understand what I’m trying to say,” Deceit turned around and slid into the room.

Of all things he expected to find, it was not the Bard and the Thief cuddling like a married couple, especially in light of their argument earlier. The Thief’s cloak and shirt were hanging on the nearby coat rack, chest wrapped in thick layers of bandages. They were leaned closer to each other, whispering about something, something about the ball that night. Deceit raised an eyebrow and coughed to get their attention. 

Both simply looked up at him, neither concerned about their positioning. Honestly, figures. 

“Heyyy,” the Bard sang, beckoning Deceit in with a hand, “Come sit!”

Deceit squinted at them and grabbed the chair across from the couch. He spun it around and sat backwards in it, legs straddling the backrest. Once he’d leaned over the backrest, one hand wrapped around it while the other held up his head, he spoke. “You called?” 

“Yeah,” the Thief shifted, patting the Bard’s side as he sat up, pulling no punches, “You kissed us?”

Ah. Welp. Deceit immediately shot the Bard a glare, opening his mouth to reprimand him, but the Thief interrupted. “No, no, he didn’t tell me. He just, uh, well,” they shared a worried look before the Thief turned back to Deceit, “He confirmed what I thought. We all felt it.”

Deceit recoiled, confused mostly. “You all what?”

“Felt your kiss,” the Thief’s cheeks turned red as he scooted himself up, the Bard stuffing pillows behind him and hissing unintelligibly at him, though he was too engrossed in the conversation to notice. “Me, Child, Dragon, we were all in a scuffle when we felt someone kiss our cheek. Couldn’t have been Logan or Virgil, might have been Patton but Bard said it was you.”

The Bard clenched his teeth in worry and made a so-so hand motion. “Guess I did tell him one teensy thing,” he said.

“How does….how did you feel it?” Deceit’s brows pinched as he took out his notepad again, looking down at what he’d written, “Is it something to do with the whole ‘we’re all Roman’ thing?”

“I don’t know.”

“I was trying to tell you, Ponyboy, it means we’re gonna be whole soon!” the Bard gently punched the Thief’s arm, then threw his arm around him and laughed.

Deceit raised an eyebrow at them, but his expression went unnoticed at first. He scribbled something down about how fast the Bard and Thief made up after their argument — perhaps they were compatible sides of each other?

No, no way, not after the arguing.

“Pony boy?” the Thief asked, frowning at the Bard.

Who winked at him and stuck his tongue out. “Stay gold,” he whispered.

The Thief groaned and shoved his shoulder, prompting the Bard to laugh. He wrapped his arms around the Thief’s waist gingerly, below his bandages. Had he any strength, the Thief would have pushed him off, but he opted for a tired eye roll and level glare.

Deceit clapped to get their attention, because no facial expressions were interrupting whatever the fuck was happening here. “Moving past that,” he made a ‘continue’ hand gesture, “Care to explain what ‘going to be whole’ means?”

The Bard rested his head on the Thief’s shoulder with a wide grin. His eyes would have sparkled if they — no wait, there, they were sparkling. “I’ve got a hunch that all that we need to bring us together is a little bit of love!”

“And I,” the Thief said, putting one hand on the Bard’s face and pushing him off slowly, “Think that’s one of the dumbest suggestions possible.”

The Bard scowled at him, nudging him with his hip. “Oh, you know what I’m talking about! It’s like true love’s kiss! True love’s kiss solves everything!”

True love’s kiss. A fairytale ending for a fairytale adventure?

Deceit hated it. 

“No.” True love? Get out of here with that. He had barely believed in love as a general concept before coming into the Imagination, he wasn’t ready to commit to TRUE love. 

Plus he’d already kissed one Roman on the cheek today and that was enough. He’d like to be kissing the real Roman next, but, well. Maybe he wasn’t ready for it? Either way, Deceit’s entire being was telling him to not.

He’d admitted QUITE a bit in the past, what. Hour? Two hours? And he wasn’t keen on anything else. It made his stomach churn.

The Thief was semi-on his side, as he shot the Bard a glare. “This isn’t a fairytale, Bard.”

“Oh, isn’t it, Flynn Rider?”

“Either way, that’s gonna take Deceit spilling the tea,” the Thief held up a finger at the Bard and turned to Deceit. “What happened?” 

Deceit raised his eyebrow. “Oh, you just want me to tell you?”

“Uh. Yeah,” the Thief waved his hands around,  “What else?”

Deceit crossed his arms. He didn’t want to disclose this fact; not of his own volition, at least, and not just yet. He’d been so upfront with Logan and Patton that he wasn’t sure how much more emotional validation he could withstand today without crying or something. “Why would I?”

“To prove him wrong,” the Thief jerked a thumb back at the Bard.

“To prove me right!” and the Bard preened, putting his hands beneath his chin and giving Deceit an award winning smile.

“No.”

Both Romans frowned. “No?” the Bard asked, “Wait, I was literally there, you DID!”

“Maybe you saw wrong?” oh, God, they were going to argue again.

“I didn’t see wrong! I—”

“Fine,” Deceit snapped, interrupting their squabbles, “Yes, I kissed the Artist on the cheek, but I don’t know anything about making you all whole. I don’t know what you want of me.”

The Thief and Bard had certainly shifted. Now the Bard was sitting on the top of the couch, legs crossed and back resting on the wall, while the Thief was laying across the couch still, legs kicked up and nudging the Bard’s knees.

They both froze, looking at Deceit through his confession. The Thief cleared his throat and propped himself up on his elbows, scooting back to lay on the armrest. “Deceit, buddy, I just wanna make sure this isn’t the answer. We want you to kiss us again.”

“If you wanted a kiss, you could have just said so,” he fixed his gloves, trying not to look at either of the Romans too directly. “Why go through all these lengths for something that means nothing?”

“Means….nothing?” the Bard’s voice was so small.

“Yes, it’s just a kiss,”

“A kiss means everything!” the Bard snapped. He jumped up, standing on the couch with one foot on the backrest and one on the armrest, towering above. “When you kissed us, we all felt it, and it felt...it felt like something. It felt like we were whole in the moment, but….”

“See, you can’t even describe the feeling,” the Thief scoffed, shaking his head disapprovingly, “Ridiculous.”

“If you’re just going to argue again, can I go?” Deceit asked, annoyance clear.

He’d thought these two Romans may be compatible, but it seemed that even they couldn’t agree on anything. At least they were still being civil. At least. Who knew how long that would last?

Both of them looked up at him and said “Wait,” with similar levels of desperation. Deceit put his hands up in mock-surrender, tired of their, of Roman’s, antics. It’d been a long day, could you really blame him?

“We,” the Thief started, eyes flicking to the Bard, who nodded for him to speak as he slid down to sit on the armrest, “We thought it’d be best to. Disclose. That Roman loves. All of you.”

His teeth grew more gritted as the confession came out. The Bard looked back at Deceit and nodded vigorously, clasping his hands to his chest and standing. He leaned down in front of Deceit, ignoring how Deceit leaned back, and met his eye-level. “Roman loves all four of you. I love all four of you, so, so much that it hurts,” he whispered. 

Deceit watched his eyes, watched them glimmer with unseen red and gold, and steeled his expression. That wasn’t necessarily as big of a surprise as it was a confession. It was like a breath of fresh air, the truth. He didn’t always get to see it so blatantly. 

Truth to Deceit was like high percentage alcohol. It was incredibly bad in large quantities, and was an acquired taste, but he could partake. And sometimes it was nice. But today had held a lot of hard truths and a lot of bare feelings, and he wasn’t sure how much he could take of this rampant exposure.

It was all given honesty, though, and given trust. He couldn’t fight that. Not when Roman was so disassembled, and not when it was about something he’d never dared to dream of.

“I am….glad,” Deceit stated, trying to figure out how to word it right.

The Thief frowned, and the Bard leaned back, a blank expression overtaking his face. Perhaps those weren’t the right words. They exchanged a look and the Bard shuffled slowly toward the door. 

“Bard thought we should tell you, just in case. That just means Dragon loves you all, too. He won’t hurt Virgil,” the Thief said.

Deceit frowned. Hang on. 

Hang on, there, because that contradicted what he’d said earlier.

“You said that Dragon wanted to dismember us,” he asked.

The Thief nodded. “I don’t know now. He, uh. He was pretty adamant about just hurting me and Child, so it’s a hunch on my part.”

“I don’t think he will,” the Bard’s voice had softened.

Deceit glanced at him, catching a tired smile. He waved back at Deceit, then gestured with his thumb to the door. “I’m going to get the others. We should plan for the ball tonight, right? Planning? That’s a thing?”

“It is,” Deceit said, pursing his lips.

He couldn’t help but feel that he’d said something wrong, as the Bard dashed out of the room.

“This whole separation thing’s been hard,” Deceit looked back at the Thief, who was tracing shapes with his finger against his leg.

“I can imagine. It’s confusing for us, it must only get easier,” he hummed, then leaned over on his knee, “You’re trusting Bard now?”

The Thief gave him a small glare, noncommittal enough that he gave up after a seconds and looked away. “I’m….not Roman. Not fully. So I don’t have all the answers. Bard’s got some.”

Not Roman. 

Of course. They shouldn’t have been putting their trust in any one or two singular Romans. Each of the Romans was just as Roman as the next. 

Okay, he should stop thinking Roman’s name, because it was starting to sound less like a word. That fell in line, though, with his prior conclusion about the Imagination. Things were falling apart without any control in here, things that Creativity should be able to control, things that wouldn’t typically hurt the other Sides. 

Deceit frowned, and wrote down another question. Curses; that oversight was on him. He’d tend to it at another time, though. For now…. “Thief?”

“Mh?” the Thief looked up, eyes half lidded with boredom.

Deceit’s lip quirked up in just the tiniest of smiles. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

The Thief’s eyes widened at first, but then he fell back into a comforting smile. “Thanks, Riddler. Let’s get this show on the road.”


	16. shiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Remus/Duke mentions, blood, stab wound, old wounds, bloody bandages, self-hatred, panic — i think that's it, but please let me know if there's anything else that y'all want tagged!
> 
> and we've dONE IT !!!!!!!! i think i've been hyped for this chapter ever since the dragon was introduced lmao, shit is getting REAL! 
> 
> love y'all so so so much and enjoy! <3

Thomas didn’t have a fear of heights, but he did have a very healthy fear of falling. Virgil kept his eyes squeezed shut, arms wrapped tightly around the Child, who had yet to stop hiss-screaming into Virgil’s chest. The teensy rational voice in the back of his mind told him that the Dragon’s claws were squeezing them way too tight for him to slip through, but whenever he opened his eyes, he saw only the drop. It must have been hundreds of feet. 

In truth, the flight only lasted about fifteen minutes. The Dragon did want to make it last. He loved flying, loved the wind sliding over his scales, the dewiness of flying through clouds, all of it. It was just such fun! 

He didn’t want his Virgil to get too frightened, though, so he wasn’t doing anything too crazy. He’d have to go out later and do some flips or something, because now that he was in the air, the desire to flip was strong. 

The Dragon may be the villain, but he wasn’t antagonistic. He LOVED his Virgil — he loved all of them! He’d just have to tear the twerp in his Virgil’s arms limb from limb in another room. That was fine, a drop in the bucket if you would! He’d get his Virgil, then his Deceit, his Logan, his Patton, his THOMAS, his Imagination. He’d rule it all! Just like the Prince, no, the King.

He slowed down as he reached his tower bedroom, slowly descending onto the balcony on his hind legs. The Dragon roared and the Child screamed again.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Virgil whispered, breath escaping in unwilling relief as he felt the Dragon touch solid ground. He didn’t believe those words, either, but he had to deal with a child here.

“He’s–He’s gonna kill us,” the Child responded through dry sobs, breathing still heaving without any tears. 

Virgil just squeezed him tighter. He wanted to comfort the kid, he just had no idea what to say nor do. God, he was garbage at this kinda thing. Patton’d be better suited. He just made people anxious.

Dude, he missed Patton. 

The pressure surrounding him disappeared in an instant. Virgil swore quietly as he fell about a foot onto the balcony’s ground, stiffening around the Child, who in turn balled his hands tighter into Virgil’s shirt fabric. 

“Relax, Shortstop, I’m not going to kill you,” the Dragon’s voice had a humored lilt.

He’s transformed back, sauntering closer and inspecting his two captives. The Child’s face, visible over Virgil’s shoulder, was squeezed into a shut-eyed, bitten-lip scowl. As the Dragon approached, he opened one eye, then both eyes, shock and stress written across his features. 

“Well,” the Dragon grinned, barring his sharpened teeth at the Child, “Not just yet.”

The Child squeaked and squeezed Virgil tighter. 

Virgil rubbed his back and exhaled slowly, trying to steel his shot nerves. He was definitely more jumpy than usual, if there was a usual where he wasn’t jumpy. But he couldn’t afford that right now — his instincts were torn between screaming, freezing in place and yelling bloody murder, and kicking the shit out of the Dragon right here and right now. 

Neither of those were very productive options, and the Child’s panicked breaths reminded him that he needed to focus. Needed to think. Of something.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, knees bending and pushing off of the ground so he could sit up, “No one’s getting killed.”

Virgil looked back at the Dragon with a hard-set glare. “Back off, Dragon Tales.”

The Dragon stopped. 

Virgil watched him raise his hands, as though he were trying to pretend he weren’t a threat. Why would he do that, though?

“I won’t,” he said, more serious, eyes meeting Virgil’s, “I promise.”

They held eye contact for a few seconds, Virgil searching for the Dragon’s honesty. He wanted to trust him, wanted to trust every part of Roman, of course. Roman was his friend, built quite literally to be a hero. He was….

The things Virgil was ready to do for Roman. His shoulders slumped a little. On the other hand, this guy was ready to actually kill the Roman in his arms. 

He still wasn’t super over this whole “multiple Romans” thing. One was a handful already. And he didn’t want to THINK about the implications of multiple Romans and what that might mean if one wanted to kill the others.

“Can I come closer?” the Dragon asked. 

The Child gripped Virgil’s shirt tighter, poking his head out to glare at the Dragon. “No!” he shouted, “You’re not allowed to hurt Mister Anxiety!”

Virgil opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out. He should say something, should defend himself and the Child — oh goodness gracious, he was just a CHILD! — but he couldn’t think of what to say. 

The Child was worried the Dragon was going to hurt him?

“I’m not going to,” the Dragon said.

He was trying to level out his voice but it was difficult. His instinct was to pounce on them both and tear the Child right from his Virgil’s arms but he also wanted to give his Dark Night anything he wanted. Anything but the other Romans. But if they made him HAPPY — they couldn’t, no. They were annoying! Stupid! Useless and Worthless! 

Virgil slowly stood up, watching the Dragon with a guarded expression. 

They had to find a way out of here. 

Pain. He hissed, stumbling a little.

The Child felt his hold loosen and slowly let go himself, sliding down Virgil’s side. He didn’t want to burden him any more than he already was. Plus he could walk. He should have been walking! Why had he let Mister Morality carry him, ah, jeez. Useless.

His hand ran over a wet patch. Oh no. 

“Mister Anxiety, you’re still bleeding.”

So he was. Virgil put a hand to his side, feeling the cloth thick with blood. 

“Oh, dear.” He had done that, hadn’t he? The Dragon put his hands down and rushed over immediately, eyes wide. He sucked in a breath when Virgil flinched away, but with the adrenaline wearing off, the pain was settling in. It must have hurt. Why did he do that? 

The Child moved Virgil’s cloak to the side, revealing a fairly large spot of wet, dark blood against his dark purple shirt. He immediately turned back to the Dragon, face set in an angry scowl. 

“You hurt him,” he snapped.

The Dragon opened his mouth, stunned, stuttering. He hadn’t meant to! He swore, he would never, he didn’t want to hurt his Virgil. “I–Well, I didn’t–I–”

“You hurt Virgil!” the Child shouted again, anger building in his voice.

“Hey, kid,” Virgil hissed, putting his other hand over his ear while the other clamped over the wound.

“You HURT VIRGIL!” the Child screeched. 

He stomped his foot and the Dragon actually took a step back. 

“ALL YOU DO IS HURT! YOU’RE A MONSTER!” 

He was wrong, the Dragon thought numbly. He was a monster, he was a villain, but he wasn’t evil. He hadn’t meant to hurt Virgil. It probably wasn’t even that bad. 

Yeah, it probably wasn’t. 

He had to be wrong.

“YOU’RE STUPID AND MEAN!”

“Shut up,” the Dragon leaned forward again, ignoring how Virgil put an arm around the Child, pulling him back.

Smoke escaped from his lips as he barred his teeth, snarling at the Child to get him to shut up. He had to! The Child was wrong, getting it all wrong! 

You’re getting it all wrong, and hurting them in the process.

But he did not. “YOU HURT HIM AND YOU’RE GOING TO HURT EVERYONE ELSE!”

“No, no, you know I’m better,” the Dragon darted forward, pulling Virgil off of the Child and grabbing him by the front of his cloak. He lifted the Child off the ground, ignoring his incoherent shouting, kicking, arms grappling to get out of his hold. But he didn’t stop shouting accusations.

“YOU’RE EVIL! YOU’RE NO BETTER THAN A DARK SIDE!”

“I WILL TEAR YOUR NECK OUT,” the Dragon roared, shaking the Child as he hung in the air. 

“HEY! HEY HEY!”

The Dragon was yanked back suddenly, jarring him into dropping the Child. Virgil yanked him back by the horn and shoved him behind, placing himself between the two. He held up two hands, two trembling hands, head turning quickly between them both as the Child pushed himself up and the Dragon regained his balance. 

Ridiculous. He was being childish, lowering himself to this. He didn’t want his Virgil to see those parts! Maybe they could go somewhere else, somewhere less out doors. The wind was really whipping around them, a storm brewing over the forrest. 

“Virgil,” the Dragon spoke, ignoring how Virgil immediately turned to glare at him, “Don’t you want to go somewhere more….comfortable, without the Child? I can take you to another room, I can have the healers dress your wound—”

“I’m not going anywhere without Child,” Virgil snapped.

The Dragon scoffed, straightening his back and resting his hand over his sword. “Come on, Virge, you can’t be serious. Look at him! He’s just a snot-nosed brat with a loud mouth,” he gestured to the Child with his elbow, who glowered in anger. 

“Well, said brat didn’t stab me, and never kidnapped me, so we’re on better terms,” the Child grinned at Virgil, brightening up immensely. 

“We are?” he asked, jumping in place and clapping, “Yay! I love you, Mister Anxiety!” 

“Shut up, Beanie Baby,” the Dragon said, cape whipping around as he glared at them all. 

He growled again at them both, ignoring how Virgil and the Child both flinched away as smoke blew up from his mouth once more. If Virgil was so adamant….

Maybe the Child was right. Maybe they were all right! That didn’t matter! He couldn’t be a monster, he was ROMAN! By Mars’ sword, he was NOT evil. Just a little impulsive, brash, self-centered. Wasn’t a little self-centeredness good when you were the ego? I mean, if I didn’t love myself then what would that say about Thomas?

The Dragon smoothed himself down, running his hand along his sash and looking out across the world. Worlds, actually. He could see the peaks of sky scrapers beyond the mountains in the distance. There were so many universes, so many stories and songs and characters and people that lived in this Imagination. His babies! His prides and joys! 

He was protecting it all. He had to do this, he had to kill the others. They didn’t know what was best for Roman! 

Virgil squeezed the skin over his wound again, one arm still bracing the Child back. If the Dragon were to attack, though, neither of them stood a chance at survival. Guess I’ll die. 

If Virgil was so adamant about staying with the Child, then the Dragon would allow him to get annoyed in his own time. He could bleed out for all the Dragon cared! Well, he wouldn’t bleed out. It was Thomas who’d be suffering a loss of Anxiety, so what was a little extra time in the dungeons?

The Child peeked around the balcony. It was large, and high up. They couldn’t fly like the Dragon could and if they jumped they’d surely fall. He could imagine something! But a lot of the things the Child imagined were unsafe, or unfinished, or scribbled out on crayon. The Child scooted closer to the balcony’s railing and peered over. It was definitely far. “What do you see?” Virgil asked, leaning over to look as well.

“Ground,” the Child said, then he sighed, “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.”

“Falling would suck,” Virgil mumbled.

“Yeah, I don’t wanna. It looks far.”

“A great fall indeed!” they both jumped and turned to the Dragon.

He was at the balcony doors, throwing them open. Beyond were a few guards, who immediately turned and began towards Virgil and the Child. One guard lifted the Child by the scruff of his shirt while two guards grabbed Virgil by the arms. 

Well. Fuck. He shouted, struggling to get out of their hold. His face was gripped roughly and turned up. 

Panic met pride as the Dragon looked him over, eyes trailing across Virgil’s face with an unreadable expression, taking in the details. The Dragon had been so flamboyant earlier, what gives now?

What, was this the last time they’d see each other or something? That was a stressful thought. Virgil tried to yank his arms free again but to no avail.

“I’ll leave you with Child, my stormcloud,” the Dragon hissed into his face. 

Virgil smelt the smoke and froze in fear. 

The Dragon let of Virgil’s face with a terse smile and patted his head as he leaned away. “Take them both to the dungeons,” he waved his hands to the guards, who tightened their hold. “Throw them in with Princess Peach!”

“Lemme go!” Virgil shouted, trying to kick the guards. 

One of the guards yanked his arm and they both lifted him off the ground.  _ Well. _

The Child and Virgil were carried, dragged, and pulled all the way down the stairs. There were a lot of stairs. It must have been floors and floor of stairs because Virgil had no idea how far they’d descended so far. On every landing was a tapestry, something artsy, sometimes with a picture of Roman. 

Some were torn. Virgil winced at one that was torn to unrecognizable shreds. He wondered what that was about; it was clear that the Dragon had torn them up, given the rips looked like claws (or maybe Roman could turn into a Dragon? Who knows.) and the sporadicness of which tapestries were ripped up. But Virgil couldn’t really tell the correlation. 

The farther town they got, the colder it got, too. By the time he’d noticed the temperature changing, Virgil’s legs were weary from the long walk down. 

“Are we there yet?” he heard the Child groan from behind. 

No response from any of the guards. Guess none of them recognized the Roman in him. Well, ya know, maybe it was a fluke! They did have orders. Maybe they’d recognize him when he was idle.

At the next landing, somewhere between the fifteenth and the eighteenth, Virgil noticed the first tapestry with Remus. It was, of course, of Roman standing literally on top of him and basking in sunlight, but you know. It was the thought that counted. As they descended, more of the tapestries featured anecdotes from Remus, and more of the tapestries featured gory scenes. Some featured Roman being defeated and Remus reigning supreme. 

He could hear the Child grumbling. Honestly, he was a little scared, too. In all their hassle of trying to find Roman, none of them remembered that Remus and Roman’s sides of the Imagination had probably blended with the Imagination’s dismemberment.

They didn’t really know how the Imagination was separated between the two. Roman had always kept the Imagination under such tight lock and key that even virgil and Patton only knew certain select locations, and had never been to the town or the castle, despite the fact that all the Romans seemed to refer to it as a very regular scene. 

That hurt. Again. 

Did Roman not trust them or something? 

Did he think they were going to wreck his creations? 

Well, Virgil thought bitterly, he wouldn’t be wrong.

Virgil knew he wasn’t exactly a well of positivity, that his criticism would often leave the prince actually offended. But that was part of his job. If Thomas wasn’t putting out his best final product, then what was the point of putting it out? And then what would be the fall out? They couldn’t risk a risky video or something that wasn’t up to par with their others. 

Still. He’d take back every jab and note if it meant Roman would have never done this to himself. 

That had to be it, right? Or at least part of it. They’d all pushed him down so much he broke and now they were without their prince. “Their.” His. Yeah. 

Finally, once they were out of stairs to descend upon, the guards veered right down a corridor. At this point, this far down, Virgil was sure they were underground at least a little. 

“The dungeons,” the Child spoke quietly. 

The hall felt damp and the walls were some kind of stone. An incredibly stereotypical dungeon, but it fit in with the rest of the stereotypically Disney village and castle. Virgil could barely see anything, either, because the only light was from some torches on the walls. There were doors, thick and iron, none open. This was honestly almost his aesthetic.

They were brought down the hall, turned a left at the very end, and the walls pushed back. All of the cells down this hall had barred gates and they could barely see into each of the cells. They all seemed to have lumps. There was a tiny window at the very top of every cell, light streaming in, but with grass visible. Just barely under ground. And that was all the light down this hall, only those tiny ass windows.

Virgil did NOT like this, not in the slightest. First the fucking sewer, and now this?! Like, he would have liked this aesthetic, but he was not going to be staying down here. And these cells were TINY!

The frontmost guard opened a cell and both Virgil and the Child were tossed in, falling on top of each other. 

The Child wrapped his arms around Virgil’s waist immediately. He pressed his face into Virgil’s chest and squeezed his eyes shut. 

If he thought about it, he could imagine a different situation. They were just sitting on bed! He was Roman and he was sitting on his bed in his room and he was snuggled against Virgil’s chest and they were watching Black Cauldron and they WEREN’T in one of Remus’ dungeon rooms and he WASN’T terrified out of his fucking mind. 

“Hey, hey,” Virgil ran a hand through the Child’s hair, holding him closer and looking around at their surroundings, “It’s okay.”

It was very much not okay. Upon closer inspection, Virgil could make out a toilet, a sink, and a regular twin-sized bed. Seemed pretty clean, too. Huh. 

Honestly, the amenities were alright. The real issue was the fact that the cell was tiny, dark, a little wet now that he was sitting on the ground, cold, and that the stab wound in his side still hurt. It couldn’t have been that deep, since he wasn’t bleeding too much anymore (listen to him, bleeding too much, as if there were an acceptable limit to bleed), but it hurt like a bitch. 

“We’re….We’re gonna be okay.” And now he was lying through his teeth, that wasn’t helping. He hated lying so blatantly like this, especially to Roman.

It felt like his heart was going to jump out of his throat and strangle him on its way out. Virgil was two seconds away from losing his mind already.

The Child looked up at him and scooted off his chest. He watched Virgil with a pout, eyes boring into his. “You can’t actually believe that,” he said.

Called out. Virgil’s cheek twitched and his fingers drummed against his arms as he crossed them. He could feel himself shaking.

“....Alright, well, I don’t. But I do know Logan and the Thief wouldn’t just leave us,” Virgil looked out the bars in front of them and did not say anything about how he wasn’t even sure if the Thief was alive still, since the last time they saw him, he had a giant sword slice through his chest. 

“But how’re they gonna get in? So how’re we gonna get out?” the Child hopped to his feet and ran up to the bars. 

He stuck his head between the bars — if he started panicking, that’d upset Mister Anxiety, and the Child did NOT want that! — and looked around. There was another cell across from them and the Child could have sworn that he just saw something move. Ew, did Remus’ rats get out? DID THEY EVEN HAVE CAGES?! 

Oh my goodness, where was Remus?

The Child turned his head away from the other cell, because it wasn’t helping his no-fear situation now that he was imagining his demented brother locked in with him and Virgil. Instead, he looked down the hall. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, expelling some energy. Not afraid at all. There were some guards standing at attention at the turn. They weren’t moving, they hadn’t gotten any orders. 

“Hey!” the Child shouted at them.

No reaction. 

He deflated. He wasn’t Roman. He’d never be Roman. He rested his head on the bar and exhaled. That’s okay. He knew he wasn’t Roman! It was okay.

Meanwhile, Virgil had scooted himself back against the wall. Definitely Logan and Patton wouldn’t leave them captured, that’s for sure, but Virgil had never really expected them to be fighters. Not in the slightest. So he wasn’t sure of when or how they’d get them out. 

A part of him, though, almost expected Deceit to just storm into the castle. 

Not really storm so much as phase in through the wall or something. Emerge from the shadows and unveil that he’d been there all along and was going to save him or something. He was always everywhere anyway, and when they’d been friends, he’d used that omnipresence to be helpful. 

Virgil kind of missed that. He did miss Deceit and the relationship they shared. Fuck, was he already getting cabin fever?

He leaned his head against the cold stone wall. Clear your head. You have to be perceptive. The smallest of things. This is what you’re good at. He slowed his breathing, tapping out the 4-7-8 rhythm on his leg. 

As he calmed down, he did begin noticing things. One thing in particular. 

“Child,” the Child turned around to Virgil, who motioned him closer. 

He hopped back, sliding across the ground and plopping down beside Virgil. 

Virgil cupped his hand around the Child’s ear. “Someone’s singing,” he breathed.

The Child pulled back and looked up at him with a frown. Was Virgil already getting cabin fever? He couldn’t hear any singing. 

Virgil took his hand and a deep breath. 

Slowly, the Child’s poorly hidden fear was drawn away, and he sniffed. Behind the fear was sorrow first and foremost, because he wasn’t Roman and he wasn’t Roman and Roman was never coming back and if he was he wasn’t going to be the same.

“Hey, breathe,” Virgil whispers cut through his thoughts like a sword “Just focus. Listen.”

The Child sniffed again and tugged his hands out. He rubbed his face, hid his face, and tried to focus.

Quiet. Dark. HE wanted to do some singing to fill this void. It was hopeless.

But then he heard it. 

_ “Far from the ones who abandoned you _ ~ _ ” _

Shiny. Moana. 

The Child looked up immediately. He looked at Virgil, who raised his eyebrows at him and nodded forward. 

The singing was coming from the cell across from them. 

_ “Chasing the love of the others~” _

Another Roman?

‘Damsel,’ the Child mouthed.

Virgil nodded, then turned back to the cell. He squinted into the dark. The Child followed suit.

Instead of the rats that the Child thought he’d seen, he could vaguely make out someone sitting in the corner, curled into a ball with an arm around his head. 

_ “Who made you feel wanted.” _

“Damsel?” Virgil asked.

The singing immediately stopped. The lump in the corner curled up tighter, shifting only a little, becoming smaller. 

The Child frowned. “Hello?” 

No response yet again. The Child pressed his hands into his lap, straightening his elbows. He was so frustrated. And sad. He kinda wanted to cry.

But he didn’t have any water in him. Hm. The Child smacked his lips quietly and exhaled. 

“I’m thirsty,” he murmured.

Virgil sighed. He was still watching the shadow — the Damsel, maybe?

“Sorry, kid,” Virgil said, “I don’t know how to help.”

The Child rubbed his face. 

There was a wooshing sound, and he felt something appear beside him. A….A wine glass full of water? 

Virgil squinted at the Damsel. If that was him. The more he starred the more he was certain. He must be injured, upset even. 

He wondered what part of Roman he represented. It couldn’t have been something good, not with that name and not with those experiences.

The sound of slurping drew his attention. Virgil blinked and looked at the Child, who was chugging a wine glass of water. Where’d he get that? 

“Where did that come from?” Virgil asked, brow furrowed. 

The Child shrugged, still drinking, and got through about half of it. Then he held it out to Virgil. “Thirsty?”

Huh. Virgil raised an eyebrow.  “Did you conjure that?”

The Child shook his head. 

They both looked up at the other person. Virgil slowly took the drink and sipped it a tiny bit. He couldn’t deny that he wasn’t thirsty. After he handed back the glass, he pushed himself up, then winced. 

“Mister Anxiety?” the Child asked, jumping up as well.

“I’m okay. It just hurts,” he was really trying to keep the kid from panicking, honest, but he couldn’t do that naturally. 

Plus, he’d been having a very light level of panic this entire escapade, and it was very much skyrocketing right now.

“Is it still bleeding?” the Child asked.

Virgil opened his mouth to respond, but his eyes flicked to the side. The figure had straightened up at that. 

And he got an idea. 

“Yeah. A little,” Virgil watched the figure stand up and limp to the bars. 

“You’re bleeding?” a soft, gentle, painfully familiar voice from the other cell.

The Child grinned as the other Roman entered the light, but Virgil just blanched. The Damsel was definitely in distress. He wore a black tanktop and white pants with a red stripe down the outer side, but what was truly troublesome were the wounds. A bloodied piece of white fabric was wrapped around his head, covering one of his eyes, and there were others wrapped around his arms. One of his pant legs was torn, with another makeshift tourniquet wrapped around his leg where it was torn. 

His hair and disposition were both drooping, shoulders slumped, weight balanced more on his undamaged leg. He met Virgil’s look and immediately ducked his head. “Do you need a bandage?” his voice was breathy and breathless at the same time, soft but reproachful. 

He reminded Virgil of a kicked puppy. 

Oh, Roman. 

“If you have one to spare?” Virgil asked, pressing his lips together and thinking for a second before continuing, “Are you Roman?”

He didn’t look up, turning back to his corner and bending down. Something was tossed across the cells, which the Child caught with one hand, in sync. A torn piece of white fabric, a makeshift bandage. 

“Y-Yes. A Roman. I’ve been called the Damsel,” he returned to his corner, “But I’d prefer it if you-if you just didn’t call me at all.”

“No, I–Damsel, please,” the Child rushed to the bars, pressing into them, “Are you okay? He hurt you, right? Bard didn’t let me watch much but I saw a little and—”

“Can you please not talk about that?” the Damsel hissed, and the Child immediately shut up.

Virgil gently tugged the bandage from the Child’s hand and he let go immediately. There was something….disconcerting about this Roman. Virgil didn’t know what it was, but he was either scared of, or scared for him. 

He was hurt. That was for certain. Carefully, he began taking off his coat, then he lifted his shirt, holding it with his mouth as he squeezed his wound and covered it with the bandage.

The Damsel was watching them, tired. Somber. 

Roman was always tired. 

He exhaled and looked back up at the window. At his beautiful creation, the little light he could see. The little he could feel. And he kept singing, gentle, for the world.

_ “I tried to be tough~” _

_ “But my armor wasn’t hard enough.” _


	17. i've got a dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: disassociation/descriptions of zoning out — i think that's it, but! as always, let me know!
> 
> WELCOME TO THE SHIP Y'ALL !!!!!!!! other than that :^) <3 ilu y'all sm, pls enjoy

“So it’s clearly a trap.”

They were all sitting in the other room, the Thief’s head resting on the Bard’s leg as he laid across the couch, Patton lounging in the Artist’s lap on the ground, Deceit on the coffee table. Logan was the only one sitting in a chair, reading over the invitation with his legs crossed on the seat.

It was finally time to broach the topic of a rescue mission and everyone was fairly apprehensive. Patton was starring at the ceiling, glasses sitting on the Artist’s head, who in turn was gently running his hand through Patton’s hair.

Deceit was flipping a coin around in his hand absentmindedly, watching Patton. He had been quieter as of late. If Logan had a headache, he hazarded a guess that Patton was similarly affected, even if he wasn’t disclosing those afflictions. 

“Definitely. Dragon knows we, uh, well,” the Thief’s eyes flicked over to the Artist, who shook his head. 

“We can’t let the Child get hurt,” the Bard said, “He was….well, not to be rude, the kiddo’s an idiot, but he’s the Prince’s favorite.”

There was a pause as Logan crunched the numbers. Child, Damsel, Dragon, Artist, Thief, Bard, Playwright — they were originally told that there were only seven Romans, right? 

It didn’t add up. He wasn’t going to voice THAT pun in front of Patton, though.

“The Prince? Is there another Roman? Or are you talking about the previous rendering of Roman as Prince Roman,” Logan handed the invitation to Deceit, who nodded and looked it over again. 

“I think he’s another figment, right?” the Bard looked down at the Thief with a raised eyebrow, “He was there on the first day?”

The Thief nodded. “He brought Child to me. Said he couldn’t take care of him, then he disappeared. Probably died, if we’re being honest.”

“Sounds like him. Flaking on responsibilities,” the Artist rolled his eyes.

Patton shifted, turning over so he could look at the Artist’s face. His hand reached up and patted his cheek.

Roman was so pretty. A pretty pretty prince. 

Wasn’t that the whole point, that he wasn’t a prince? Wait, why he wearing Patton’s glasses? Ah, goodness. He needed a Pat-nap, he couldn’t believe he forgot the Artist. 

He didn’t notice the Artist’s slight blush as he ran his hand through Patton’s hair again. “You’re okay, Patt,” he mumbled. 

Deceit raised an eyebrow at them, then looked back at Logan.

“I….don’t think that the Roman we are most familiar with would be so careless, though he has been heedless in the past,” Logan said, “We can hold discussions about the Prince for a different time, though. As for a plan, do any of you know what the castles interior looks like?”

“Why should we? We can figure it out once we’re there!” the Bard said. 

“No, we cannot,” Deceit shook his head in agreement with Logan. “If we are to create an infallible plan, we cannot be lackadaisical.”

The Bard laughed, wagging his finger at Logan. “I can assure you that I lack no daisies, thank you very much.” 

He snapped his fingers and a flower crown appeared on his head. The Thief made a face and Deceit sighed, both already exasperated. Logan, however, ignored his shenanigans and leaned forward to explain.

“Lackadaisical. We cannot be too,” he thought for a suitable synonym, “Laid back.”

The Bard blinked, then grinned in understanding. “Okay, Captain Cogitation, whatever you say.”

“I agree with Logan,” Deceit nodded to Logan, “If we want to pull this off, we’ve got to know everything.”

“Isn’t that your specialty, mister pants on fire,” the Artist asked, still running his hand through Patton’s hair. “You always seem to know more about everything than anyone else.”

Deceit turned to him, eyes quickly flicking to Patton before he raised an eyebrow at the Artist. The Artist stiffened. 

Slowly, he retracted his hand from Patton’s hair. It didn’t feel very welcome anymore.

“Sneaking and knowing are two of my talents, yes, but this is your world. I’ve never been inside that castle. I have to admit ignorance,” Deceit tilted his head to the side, toward the window, ignoring the Artist’s hurt expression, “You’ve been inside though, right?”

“The Prince has,” the Thief corrected, “I’ve been in and out in a few places. Know where Dragon’s hoard room is. I don’t think any of us actually know how to navigate it.”

The Bard not nodded in agreement, lips pursed in disappointment. Truth be told, he really wanted to see the inside of the castle. Interesting to note, in Logan’s mind, that they didn’t share the Prince’s source of knowledge.

“Surely if Roman has been inside the castle, then all of you would qualify as having been inside?”

“Well, yeah. But as the Prince. We,” the Thief pointed around at himself, then the Bard, then the Artist, “Don’t all have his memories in that detail.”

So the Prince had a different connection to Roman, the concept. That was Logan’s understanding. 

Then again, did Logan understand ANY of what was going on in here?

Now, now, don’t be too hasty. He rubbed his forehead, trying to ignore the increased throbbing in the back of his skull. Maybe the optimal strategy would have been to assume that anything goes in the Imagination, but you couldn’t fault him for trying to apply logic to the nonsensical. Perhaps there was some logic to it, with a rationale he didn’t anticipate.

All of the Romans bore some similarities and abilities to the original Prince Roman, but because the Prince was missing in action, dissolved, what have you, then those characteristics were divided amongst the remaining seven Romans. 

He had to understand the range of abilities. “Deceit, can you take notes?” Logan asked, and Deceit wordlessly conjured his notepad as Logan turned back to the Thief. “So, if you do not have exact likenesses to Roman, then what do you all have in common? We must understand the skillset we are working with.”

The three Roman parts all shared a look — apprehension, perhaps? — and the Thief broke off first. “A few of Roman’s strongest feelings and convictions, and some of his mannerisms,” he said, looking back at Logan, “That’s all that carries over to all seven.”

“And who decided that?”

“Who decided what we would take from Roman?” the Thief rubbed the back of his head and looked at the Artist, who shrugged, then the Bard, who….also shrugged. He sighed and continued speaking, though he didn’t exactly want to be the sole voice. “Well, us, I think? Or him. It kinda just happened when we were one.”

“The him that doesn’t exist?” Deceit raised an eyebrow at the Thief, who rolled his eyes and looked pointedly away. 

Yeah, he was done speaking. 

The tensions were heating up again. Patton sighed, scooting closer to the Artist’s chest and snuggling his head into his hoodie. It was soft. And it smelt like Roman.

Smelt like home. Patton closed his eyes. Had it really only been one day? He missed the common room so much, missed sitting on the couch and gluing photos and stickers into the scrap book he was working on. Missed listening to Roman rehearse lines and the flipping of Logan’s pages and the faint music wafting from Virgil’s headphones.

He was excited to see what Deceit’s routine would be when they got back. Maybe he’d want to join breakfasts?

Focus, Patton. He rubbed his face with the butt of his palm. Focusing was difficult, like trying to stand steady on a boat. Earlier, he’d been easy sailing, but right now it felt like they’d hit the currents.

“This is all confusing,” Patton mumbled.

He had to pull himself together! 

The Artist hummed sympathetically, hand reaching up and patting his hair, stopping short of running through. He tutted, then shook his head. “Look, usually there isn’t a rhyme or reason to what we do, we just…” he gestured vaguely into the air, “Do!”

There was a beat of silence as Logan, Deceit, and the Thief all squinted at him, for slightly differing reasons.

The Bard, however, just leaned in and said “A-scoodly-boo! Oop, maybe there is a rhyme?”

Logan and Deceit were surprised, watching the Bard. The Bard missed it, however, and winked at the Thief. Who smiled a tiny bit back. Even the Artist was smiling, clearly pleased.

Were they….was Roman that unaware?

No matter. Logan cleared his throat and the Thief opened an eye. “Can you please elaborate on the differences between each of you, then. There is a clear thematic or, rather, trope distinction between you all, but what are the Roman-esque traits that each of you individually have?”

That was a pretty clear place to start, Logan thought. He, Patton, and Deceit had been forming their own opinions and had their own hypothesis, but it’d be worthwhile to confirm their theories before jumping to conclusions. 

The Thief shifted, pushing himself up and out of the Bard’s lap. He sat upright and pulled his legs up to sit criss-cross. “In terms of what abilities we have, it’s been determined mostly by what we value. I….can fight. I can think calmly for the most part. I’m a lot of what Roman is when he’s alone,” the Thief waved his hand, then drummed his fingers against his thumb in thought, “I guess that’s why I’m so, uh….not-Roman?”

“Same with me,” the Artist said, raising his hand and tapping Patton’s back, signalling to him to sit up himself, “Bard and I, we create. Playwright, too. But because we all have different work ethics, different ideas on what should and-uh, on what to create, because of that we’re split. And our attitudes.”

Logan nodded. “Understandable.” 

Patton sat up and leaned against Logan’s knee. So they were talking about the different Romans. Alright. He was caught up, yeah! They were all different, different in their own ways, but they also clearly came together to be….Roman.

What ever they discussed here, because in truth he knew very little about what they were talking about, he knew they’d have to talk to the Damsel and the Dragon. Were they considering that? 

Deceit shut his notebook and looked up, remembrance written across his face. “That reminds me. Regarding your ability to create,” he pointed his pen at the Artist, “Are you aware of how….dense your creations have gotten?”

They were absolutely not considering that, apparently. Patton winced, turning toward the Artist. The tension returned as his expression flatted, becoming more guarded. The concept of creation seemed to be a touchy subject indeed, if the incident with the palette knife and threats were anything to go off of.

Behind him, Patton was gesturing to Deceit to cut out whatever line of questioning he was entering, waving his hands frantically. He had an icky feeling. The kind that was usually accompanied with nervousness, when he and Virgil would both be worried about something or another, but Virgil wasn’t here right now and this was more of the ball dropping into his stomach than the hair standing on the back of his neck.

It was awkward. That’s what it was, that’s the word. An incredibly awkward situation. Did Deceit know how the Artist was sensitive about his art? Oh, golly, they should have told him.

On the other side, Logan was simply watching Deceit with a raised eyebrow. Surely Deceit could have deduced that the Roman figment named ‘The Artist’ would be, well, unreceptive to critiques?

“Dense?” the Artist asked.

The Bard winced, and the Thief whistled lowly. “Don’t tread on me,” he murmured, looking up at Deceit. 

Deceit looked at him for only the briefest second, lip quirking up into a sly smile. 

He knew what he was doing. Logan had realized earlier and they had to make sure at least SOME of the Romans understood the toll that the Imagination was taking. 

“Dense, yes. Layered. Very well crafted,” his eyes trailed back up to the Artist, whose hand slowly unclenched from his pants fabric.

Ah. Yes, well. He preened a little, straightening his shoulders.

Ah, but this was Deceit. Who knew how honest he was being? The Artist froze, and then leaned down  over on one of his hands, gesturing for him to continue. He should see it out.

Deceit inhaled slowly. Logan glanced at him again, noting how he tensed so much. He couldn’t have been the only one physically affected by their circumstances. 

He reached a hand out and rested it on Deceit’s clenched fist, giving him a soft squeeze. 

Deceit’s eyes flew open. For a second, it seemed like he was going to combust, eyes flicking between Logan’s hand and face. 

Then, he exhaled, features relaxing. It was okay. It was okay!

No tricks. 

“Have you considered,” Deceit turned back to the Artist, who was still watching expectantly, “That the Imagination is too intricate for us?”

The Artist leaned back just an inch. He reached his hands up and ran them through his hair. “Care to explain?” 

Deceit nodded. The most obvious way he could explain it was thusly. “You all mentioned earlier that the passage of time was illogical earlier.”

And that was all he had to say. The Thief swore, smacking himself in the head. The Bard groaned, burying his face in his hands as he leaned forward. The Artist blanched, expression dropping as his eyes widened at Deceit. 

See? Explaining that wasn’t so hard. 

Deceit bit his lip and took off his hat, running his hand through his hair and shaking his head. At this point, his words were burning the back of his throat like bile. 

No more tricks. He didn’t need to hide.

Patton reached over and rubbed Deceit’s knee. “Good job,” he said, a smile playing on his lips

“Ah, fuck,” the Thief turned to Logan, “You.”

The Bard pointed at Logan.

Logan slowly put his hands up. “This seems more accusatory than was intended.”

“No, no, no,” the Thief slapped the Bard’s hand and then pointed his own finger at Logan, “Are you okay? You must be tired. Fuck.”

“Wait, wait, that’d apply to ALL of you,” the Bard snapped in front of the Thief’s face and gestured to Patton, who was watching everything with a confused expression (why were they all so snappish with this?) , “Wow. We knew this would happen! We knew!”

“I’m a fucking moron,” the Artist snapped, taking off his glasses.

“Why?” Patton asked, now turning to him. 

The Artist clicked his tongue and waved his hand in front of the Bard’s face, cutting him off with his mouth open. “By being in the Imagination, especially for so long, you’re subconsciously affecting the world. We built everything in here without your input, so it’s illogical, without morals, without honest emotion or depth. It’s a bunch of drafts that’ve never interacted with another Side. You all being in here means you’re fixing it without knowing.”

Deceit smiled. Sweet, sweet victory.

“But I’ve been in the Imagination before,” Patton asked, brow furrowing, was that what Deceit was talking about earlier, “There wasn’t a problem then.”

“Yes,” all of them looked up at Logan, who took up the helm of explanation, “But that was because there was a unified Roman who could control what we experienced in the Imagination, correct?”

“Mhm, right on the money,” the Thief said, “The city you saw yesterday, Deceit? That sort of stuff would usually be hidden. That’s also why you’ve never seen this town, Padre, nor the characters.”

“It’s like subconscious editing, and you’re all trying to edit everything that’s ever been created,” the Bard covered his mouth, brows pinching in mortification, “Oh, goodness, my darling stars, are you sure you are alright?”

Deceit loved being right. He looked at Logan, who nodded. “A mild headache,” he rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, “But beyond that, nothing.”

“Are you sure?” the Artist asked. 

He looked at Patton, who was swaying slightly beside him, eyes fixated on the wall directly ahead. That couldn’t be good.

Carefully, the Artist picked up his glasses and slid them onto his face, turned him towards himself. Patton blinked, stare now focusing in on the Artist’s tired but relieved smile. “You’re stretching yourself thin, Patt,” he murmured. 

Patton smiled back, forcing the excited and positively positive expression back out. He was so tired; it was difficult to understand what was happening, as always, but the Romans had verbalized it so well. He was feeling everything. Intensifying every feeling, and then extrapolating the moral repercussions onto every action that every character was making.

No wonder he had been so exhausted. The Artist ran a hand through his hair and Patton’s smile immediately fell again. He let his head lean into the Artist’s hand, eyes closed. 

On the other hand, the Bard stood up and took one stride to stand directly in front of Logan. He gently cupped Logan’s cheek, feeling his head with the back of his hand. “You don’t have a fever. There’s a lot in here — we have a superhero world, that’s been expanded upon after the cartoon episode, but we have a lot of medieval worlds and quite a few fantasy rules that simply don’t abide by laws. Not to mention—”

He continued talking about the worlds they’d made and checking on Logan’s well being, seemingly unaware of how the logical side was frozen stiff in his hands. 

Deceit thought it was hilarious. Logan seemed so flustered with the Bard rushing around him, smoothing out his tense shoulder muscles without any real understanding of why they were tense. 

At least, he thought it was hilarious until the Bard hurried over to him. He immediately took off Deceit’s hat and ran his hands through his hair, tilting his head up. “You, too, Loki, you’ve got to be tired from helping with our storylines. Here,” he moved to go around Deceit, also not noticing how bright red he was, but the Thief finally stopped him.

“Look, let’s….let’s be up front,” the Thief clapped, drawing attention wearily back to himself, “We told Deceit this, but we need to tell the two of you as well.”

“....Wait, what did you say?” the Artist asked.

The Bard grinned at him, then looked down at Patton. Of course! They had to tell everyone. They wanted to share this!

“I love you.”

Patton blinked, then grinned. 

Warmth.

Butterflies. 

The Artist opened his mouth, but only a choked “oh” escaped. The Bard didn’t wait for his approval, though, turning to Logan as well and saying, “And I love you, too! And I love Deceit! And I love Virgil! I love all of you! So, so much!”

Logan nodded slowly. 

That was

Quite a bit to process. He only just accepted that he loved Patton last night, please give Logan up to 5 business days to acknowledge his emotions. He nodded curtly, though his bright red visage betrayed how flustered he was. 

It was Deceit’s turn to hold his hand. Not too much, but just enough of a firm grip to let Logan know that they were okay. That it was okay.

The Bard didn’t seem to mind the lack of immediate validation, as he continued to bounce in place, positively buzzing with happiness. With LOVE! With ROMANCE! 

He was so GOSH DARN ENDEARING. Patton looked back at the Artist, who was still a blushed statue. 

Patton loved them, too. He loved them!

“I love you, too,” he said, turning to look at the Bard, a honest smile splitting his face.

The Bard’s hands shot up as he patted his own face. “Patton! I love you, too, too!”

“I love you, too, too, too!” Patton laughed, reaching up a hand.

The Bard took his hand and pulled him up in one fluid spin, and they hugged, arms wrapped around each other’s waists. 

This made sense, to the other two Romans. Leave it to the Bard to be able to channel Roman’s romance; he housed most of it, after all. 

They watched the Bard and Patton laugh and sway, chirping about love together. 

And then Patton leaned forward and kissed him. 

Roman froze. 

Slowly, he reached a hand up and ran it through Patton’s hair, cupping his head and pulling him closer. 

I love you, my dearheart.

The Thief and the Artist were frozen, from what Logan and Deceit could see, and it even looked like the Bard was frozen. Their forms shimmered of the deepest red and the brightest gold, for a moment.

_ DONTTOUCHMEDONT _

The Bard pulled back. 

The Artist fell backwards, then scrambled up to his feet. He looked around at the Thief, who was sitting on the couch, eyes wide at the ceiling, then at Logan and Deceit, who were watching him with expressions of intrigue and horror. 

“I’m — I — Kitchen,” the Artist bolted out immediately.

Logan watched the Bard untangle himself from Patton, only to immediately lean forward and hug him again. That was certainly a surprise to witness. It served as more evidence that the figments of Roman were less tangible as Sides than any of them were, made from the Imagination rather than as new Sides. 

His thought process couldn’t ignore the tight fear that he’d felt when all of them disappeared, however. It was….that was terror. This was what terror felt like.

“I guess his theory was right.”

Deceit was watching the Thief, still frozen, with a frown. Logan wasn’t sure what he was referring to, as they hadn’t theorized that thus far. “Whose?” 

Deceit nodded to the Bard, whose hands were tenderly wrapped around Patton’s waist, kiss broken and face buried into his chest. “True love’s kiss. The Bard thought that that may be the answer to bringing Roman back.”

Ah, of course. Logan let out a suffering sigh. He wasn’t opposed to the idea, but they had all been going so fast. It was already a large realization that he loved the others, compounded with their surprising and enthusiastic reciprocation. Plus, the notion of expecting such a romantic and fantastical gesture was certainly far enough up Roman’s figurative alley that he would include that as a failsafe.

Then, there was a knock on the door. 

“Come in,” Patton called, hands still gently drumming against the Bard’s back. He still felt giddy. Roman loved him, Logan loved him, Deceit loved him — he just needed to tell Virgil! 

The Playwright opened the door, a thick stack of papers in one hand, hair mussed and tousled, glasses slightly askew. He didn’t seem to mind, though, as he fixed them carefully and let out one quick laugh. “That felt amazing,” he was breathlessly pleased.

“What did?”

“The kiss,” the Playwright said, a soft smile landing on his lips as he set the papers down beside Deceit on the table.

Deceit nodded and looked at the top one. It was a sketch, from multiple angles, of a suit and mask. Octopus?

The Artist peeked his head in through the open door and slowly shuffled in again. He looked at the Playwright, who slung an arm around his shoulders and hugged him tight quickly before letting go fast. 

“You felt it?” Logan asked, rubbing his chin in thought.

More fodder to the figurative Roman figment fire.

The Playwright grinned, but the Artist just let out a humored breath. Even he was feeling warm and fuzzy, despite the shock of being….touched. It felt weird still, and it felt weird for it to feel weird. “We’re all Roman, dearest, we all felt it,” the Artist exhaled, letting the nickname simmer. 

They slowly looked up at the Bard, nestled into Patton’s chest, who had the most serene expression. His hands were intertwined behind Patton’s back, swaying on his feet slowly as though dancing to music none of them could hear. Ecstatic.

The Thief finally relaxed, blinking up at the Playwright and the Artist. Best to….not acknowledge what had just happened. “Playwright? You brought some outfits?” he asked.

The Bard did not leave Patton’s hold, but for some reason, the hold was stabilizing Patton’s mentality enough that he turned to the Playwright with everyone else. 

The Playwright nodded, professional tension returning to his demeanor. He gestured to the stack of papers. “I’ve got some outfits,” some was an understatement, as the stack was almost as large as Logan’s 300 page Christmas gift. “If you aren’t opposed, I’ll conjure them up.”

A small bead of silence. 

They were going to reassemble Roman. It was going to work. And they were going to do it with love and determination. 

“....Thank you, Playwright,” said figment turned to the Artist, who was giving him a kind smile. “Thank you for your work. Always appreciated.

The Playwright blinked in confusion. “I…Thank you, Artist,” he slowly smiled back, feeling self-respect well in his chest. “That’s good to hear.”

He looked around to everyone else and pushed up his glasses. He could do this. He was Roman! He was. They were all Roman, and they were going to reassemble themselves. 

They could do this. The Playwright motioned for the first design. “Let’s get down to business.”


	18. poor unfortunate souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Remus mention, suggested murder, disassociation (?), self-deprication, self-hatred, suicidal thoughts (small mentions!), being held captive/kidnapping, wound mention — i think that's all, but let me know if there're any others!!!
> 
> idk what to say about this chapter tbh. im just. im so excited for the ball. im like s . o. excited. and i hope you are too !!! enjoy !!! <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

If this Roman was anything, he was too quiet. 

“Damsel, I wanna get us all out,” Virgil hissed, arm slung around the bars to his and the Child’s cell as he tried again to coax a reaction out of the terrified figment, “But I need your help with that.”

The Child was pacing quietly, his feet shuffling around the background noise to Virgil’s voice. The Damsel hadn’t spoken again since he introduced himself and, judging by how Virgil could see his single wide, petrified eye watching him, he wasn’t planning on speaking any more. His hand was grasping his mouth so tight that Virgil could almost believe it was Deceit’s doing, if he wasn’t certain Deceit weren’t here.

Plus, it’d been, like, hours. He was getting tired, his side stung, and he really just wanted to go home. His gut was telling him that the others were going to get him out, but that voice was getting more quiet as time passed. 

Virgil was mostly anxious about what the hell was taking so long! They knew where the castle was. Maybe they got caught by some guards?

The Thief was in bad shape last he saw. He might even be dead. 

A part of Roman coulda been dead, and Virgil wouldn’t even know, because he was locked in a cell far apart from the others and he had no way to get out and no way to contact them and see if they were okay. And he was locked in here with bits and pieces of Roman that seemed discarded. His own anxieties and insecurities. 

He knew Roman wasn’t confident about some things, but damn.

….Maybe he should take a nap or something. He was exhausted. 

Fat chance he’d be able to rest in this kinda atmosphere. Virgil really needed a back massage and a hot bath after this quest. It was grinding on the last of his brain cells like…..like….like a grindstone? 

Wow, even his internal monologue couldn’t come up with anything. He was useless.

“Hey, hey,” two small hands rested on his head, gently hugging his head, “No, you aren’t. You’re Virgil and you’re great.”

He must have said that aloud, then. Virgil sighed, closing his eyes and reaching around to pat the Child’s leg. “I’m sorry,” he tried to wave it off, downplay what he’d been thinking, but the Child wasn’t letting go. 

So Virgil did. He went back to having an arm slung out the slits between the bars, watching the Damsel as he shifted his sitting position, hugging his knees. He began to hum quietly, to the tune of a song that Virgil could recognize was Disney but didn’t quite know the name of. And then he started singing.

_ “Come on, you poor unfortunate soul~”  _ the Damsel’s voice was barely above a whisper, soft and missable as it had been earlier,  _ “Go ahead, make your choice. I’m a very busy Side and I haven’t got all day~” _

A sudden thought struck him, and he sat upright. The Damsel had reacted to the Child wanting water. Maybe…. “Child, hey,” Virgil said, “Have you ever met the Damsel?”

“Yeppers!” the Child said, a smile in his voice, “We hung out at the beginning of all this!”

“So you’re friends?” Virgil asked.

_ “It won’t cost much~” _

The Child shrugged. “I dunno. I hope we are! We’re friends, right, Damsel?”

He sunk down behind Virgil, wrapping around his back like a koala and resting his face in such a way that he could watch the Damsel as well. No response, though.

That WAS still his name, right?

_ “Just your voice!” _

“You wanna go by Damsel, right?” the Child asked, brow furrowed.

His singing stopped. 

“Yes,” the Damsel said, voice soft and croaky, “Please.”

“Why’d you pick that name?” the Child asked.

They could see him make a small gesture, as though to say ‘isn’t it obvious?’, but the Child shook his head. The Damsel wasn’t always like this. 

He giggled to himself quietly. “It’s a fitting name. I’m no prince, no thief, artist, playwright, I’m not anything. Just in distress. Useless,” he rested his head against the side wall, “Damsel.”

Virgil frowned. “Roman’s not useless. He’s….” c’mon, think, but nothing TOO sappy, “We need him.”

Yeah, that was good. 

They could vaguely see the Damsel shake his head. “Fine, helpless. I’m locked in a cage. I’ve BEEN locked in a cage for days.”

He looked up again, at the sky. 

“Thanks, Virgil,” his eye flicked over, “But….too bad your big-big admission is dwarfed by your gargantuan failures.”

Virgil’s nose scrunched up, recoiling. 

A pit of dread opened in his stomach as he realized Roman was still holding onto that, Virgil had said it a long while ago. Sure, a part of him was exasperated, shouted STILL? But it made sense, didn’t it, for the ego to internalize those sorts of critiques.

He felt the Child let go of him, and Virgil leaned forward against the bars. 

“Roman, I didn’t—”

“Sorry,” the Damsel cut him off, voice growing more clear, more stern, “I cannot contr-contribute an ounce of constructive input.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You’re the one who says to not encourage me,” the Damsel leaned forward, growling, “All of you think it. Roman, the dramatic one. The insecure one. The stupid one. We WON’T be stupid after this!”

Virgil leaned back. This was illuminating. And a situation he was not equip to handle in the slightest. 

He looked to the side briefly, where the Child sat. His legs were crossed and he was watching the other cell with a focused...worry. He was worried about the Damsel. 

Virgil turned back at the sound of scraping. The Damsel had stood up. He shuffled to his bed and fell face first onto it, groaning quietly. Painfully. He was pitiful, sure, and he was part of Roman. Virgil couldn’t just ignore that. 

He had to work with him, not against him. He didn’t know how or why the Damsel was still holding onto Virgil’s past words, but he did know that whatever was feeding the insecurities (and he shuddered to think it was himself or any of the others, even Remus) was wrong. And that, like it or not, the Damsel was a part of Roman. A sad part but a part nonetheless. He just had to convince him that they l-word-ed Roman. 

He shifted again, sitting cross legged now. “You’re not stupid,” he said, “You can be dumb, but so can all of us. And you’re valued.”

The Damsel scoffed and rolled onto his side, into the fetal position. 

“Roman, look at me,” the Damsel full on flinched, curling tighter. 

“Don’t call me that. I’m not good enough to be.”

Virgil bit his lip. These identity crises sure were confusing. “But you’re Roman, too. You’re important enough to be a whole part.”

“I know I am, but-but that’s what’s wrong,” the Damsel looked aside. “I shouldn’t be...here. Alive.”

The Child scooted up to sit beside Virgil. “No! I was telling you that earlier!” he stage whispered at the Damsel, full of naive optimism, “You’re important! You’re an important part of Roman!” 

“Stop,” the Damsel croaked. 

They were finally breaking through, Virgil thought. 

Footsteps in the distance shattered that hopeful thought. Virgil waved his hand, indicating for silence, and the two Romans immediately fell quiet. The Damsel sat upright on his bed, then hugged his pillow tight to his chest.

Oh. 

The footsteps got louder, heels clacking on the stone floor. The Child tugged on Virgil’s cloak and mouthed ‘Dragon.’

They could hear him talking to no one in particular. Probably the guards, but the guards weren’t sentient, so probably himself. That was pretty Roman of him, right? 

He wasn’t Roman, though. The Child knew. He smiled at the Damsel, who ignored him, and looked out between the bars again, head just barely fitting. Yep, there was the Dragon, walking towards them. 

“Helloooooooo!” the Dragon’s voice echoed along the hall, “Are my favorite three stooges awake?”

The Damsel rolled his single visible eye so vehemently that Virgil almost laughed. Good to see that the Dragon’s theatrics were looked down upon by all of them.

He sauntered into view, standing between the two cells with his hands behind his back. The Dragon huffed out his nose, smoke expelling from the movement as he winked at Virgil, then barred his teeth at the Child. Neither flinched. 

He raised an eyebrow and turned to the Damsel, who flinched upon eye contact. Gotcha. The Dragon stepped closer to the bars, leaning against them as he focused on the Damsel.

“Awh, why the long face, Captain Incapacitated,” the Dragon dragged his fingers along the crossbar, grinning wider when the Damsel flinched. 

“Leave him alone,” Virgil hissed.

The Dragon turned back to him, still leaning on the other wall’s bars, and stuck his tongue out at Virgil. It had a pointed tip, much more like a dragon’s than a human’s. He withdrew, looking at Virgil and the Child sitting on the ground, and leaned his head against a bar. His emo nightmare was certainly a dream. 

“I wish I could let you out for the ball tonight,” the Dragon sighed, a small smile on his face, “Wouldn’t it be lovely to dance?”

Virgil scowled. Dancing with the Dragon was the last thing he wanted to do, thanks. But another word caught his attention. “Ball?”

“Oh, yes!” the Dragon clapped happily as he spoke, “Why else would we need the Child here?”

The Child frowned and mouthed the word ‘we’ to himself as the Damsel met Virgil’s eyes for a second. ‘We.’

“He’s bait,” the Damsel mumbled, looking down at the Dragon’s cape.

“Genius, isn’t it! I mean, look at that worthless, pudgy, snot-nosed face! Any of the others would die protecting him,” the Dragon laughed.

The Damsel turned away.

“We,” the Child squeaked out. 

“We indeed,” the Dragon looped his arm through the bars and hugged the Damsel around the neck, ignoring how he flinched and shook, “The Damned-sel here has been so lovely, helping me plan everything.”

No. No way. Virgil and the Child watched the Damsel, who ducked his head and focused intently on the Dragon’s cape, swaying as he spoke. He was explaining his elaborate evil plan. 

But, honestly, the Child was furious. He’d trusted the Damsel. Maybe he was right. Maybe he WAS just the Damsel now. He was a no-good sad distressed Damsel who should stay in this little cage and rot and then turn into fertilizer for some flowers! 

“Oh, it’s going to be fantastic! Every inhabitant of the Imagination was invited! It’s our annual Creativity ball, you know the one,” the Dragon waved his hand dismissively at the Child, who frowned, “The other Sides were all invited too! Oh, they’re going to look so dashing — the Playwright and the Artist will probably end up dressing them, and they’re going to look magnificent, delectable!”

He clapped in happiness. “And then I’ll get to dance with them! And kiss them! And then, since the others will be here, too, I’ll get them all in once place….to slaughter!” 

The Dragon laughed, a high pitched cackle with his hands over his chest. 

Everyone else just watched. 

Virgil was actually growing angry. The Damsel was working with this clown? And he thought the other Sides would like HIM? Maybe he was wrong, Roman was an idiot.

“....You’re such a stereotype, Maleficent,” the Damsel said, stepping away from the bars again, only for the Dragon to grab his arm. 

He wagged his finger at the Damsel and pulled him a little closer, gesturing to the other cell. His mouth was half open when the Child cut him off.

“How’re you going to get everyone?” he asked, loud.

“I, uh, what?” the Dragon turned to the Child, blinking in confusion, “I don’t know, I haven’t thought that far.”

He looked at the Damsel, who seemed equally as confused, but who managed to regain his composure faster. 

The Damsel turned away from all of them, head bobbing back and forth slightly as he considered. 

“Well,” he said with a sigh, “They are going to come. They will probably try to search for us.”

Was….was he scheming? Just right in front of them. Virgil could feel his anger festering, subsiding into resentment. Of course. The Dragon couldn’t have concocted thorough plans on his own. Of course. 

To be honest, though, he’d thought his partner was Remus. Not….

“They won’t know their way around the castle, but it’s not hard to assume they’ve gotta go down. They’ll find us,” the Damsel glanced at Virgil and the Child, who were both watching him with equally betrayed glares, “You-You could...I dunno. Something. Then.”

The Dragon grinned. “Wonderful! I’ll start setting something up in the dungeons — we can talk more about the specifics when you’re getting your dress fitted.”

They all now turned to the Dragon with confusion. The Damsel spluttered a little, pointing to himself with his shaky right hand, and asked “MY dress?”

“Of COURSE your dress, you’re coming to the ball tonight!” the Dragon kissed his cheek, ignoring how the Damsel jerked away, “We can’t have a ball without a prince, and you’re close enough!”

The Damsel was paling so much, one would have thought his wounds had reopened. He looked at Virgil and the Child with a confused frown, then back at the Dragon. “Why? That’s...That wasn’t in the plan.”

“Oh, I know, but I thought the plan could use a little editing. Remus suggested—”

Ah, there it was. Speak of the devil.

The Damsel cast the Dragon a look of despair and disappointment. At least the dislike of Remus ran pretty thoroughly through him.

“You’re still listening Remus?” the Damsel’s voice grew, “We’re still taking pointers from the Duke of Trashville? From Oscar the gross? You’re ridiculous.”

“Hey, hey, you did agree that THIS,” the Dragon pointed to himself, then to the Damsel, then to the Child, before continuing, “Was a decent idea. Besides, I prefer his creations. He’s so much better at it than us.”

Record scratch? Virgil shot the Dragon a glare infused with as much confusion as it could be, because what the heck? “Uh, no, of course he’s not? What’re you even thinking?”

“Well,” Virgil whipped around to the Damsel, who had deflated faster than a mutilated balloon, “He-he’s still….he’s good at making ideas.”

“So are YOU!” Virgil wrung his hands, then grabbed the bars to his cell, gripping them tight enough to whiten his own knuckles. 

When they’d first entered the Imagination, Virgil forgot that it was, to some extent, also inhabited by the Duke. Where even was that wild card?

“Where is he?” he asked, “You’ve gotta have him close if he’s got input on this.”

The Dragon waved his hand flippantly, then inspected his nails. His hands were gloved, sure, but if Deceit could do it then so could he. “Oh, he’s just upstairs! I don’t let him out much, having his energy just roaming around would be too much of a wild card for our little game.”

The Damsel raised a hand, eye flicking back to the Dragon every so often. “Locked up. Chained, right? Or at least trying to?”

Trying to? Virgil and the Child shared a confused look before turning back to the other pair. “Trying to?” the Child asked. 

“Well,” the Dragon shrugged, “He keeps eating the chains.”

Virgil was confused, but the Child just nodded with a soft “ah,” as though that were to be expected. Which, granted, now that Virgil thought about the Duke, a train of thought he actively avoided boarding, the more he realized that yeah that’s some shit Remus would pull.

“I just visit him every so often, and that keeps him put,” the Dragon shrugged, then clapped, “He does like an audience, as do we! And now we need an audience with you, Kingdom Heart-ache. The show’s about to start!”

The Damsel raised a hand, terror streaking across his face in a moment. 

It was hard to not feel bad for the guy. Sure, he might be working with the Dragon, just to an extent, but it seemed out of necessity. Out of some kinda backwards self-validation of deep insecurities. 

Virgil was super not equip to deal with that, but he also knew he couldn’t just leave the Damsel alone. 

“I’m not going,” the Damsel said, hands balling at his sides, “I….”

His eyes widened. Slowly, he became more….transparent? Virgil squinted. The Dragon too glowed a little, the both of them turning see-through and glowing red and gold. 

He turned to the Child and saw him frozen as well, small hands holding the bars to their cell, body glowing. 

What the hell was this? Why did all the Romans keep freezing up like this, was something happening in the Imagination? His throat clenched in fear. 

Oh my God, was Remus hurting them? Virgil swore quietly. Was THOMAS hurting them? Was he trying to summon Roman too forcefully? What was going on?

They didn’t look in pain, but Virgil didn’t know what happened when a Side disappeared, maybe THAT’S what happened! And he didn’t know what happened when Roman split up like this — maybe THAT happened?

They all solidified again, and the Damsel shot back into his cell, hoarsely screaming incoherently loud enough for Virgil to jump. 

The Dragon laughed, a light glowing in his eyes, and the Child sank against the ground, giggling into his hands, happy as a clam.

The Damsel curled up in the corner and hugged himself, body trembling.  

Quite the reactions. Virgil stepped closer to the bars again, hands holding the cross bar. “What just happened?” he asked. 

The Dragon turned to him, glowing embers in his eyes alight with joy. 

He didn’t answer. Rather, he turned to the Damsel’s cell and snapped off the lock, striding in with one large step. He bent down and grabbed the Damsel’s wrist, then arm, then threw him over his shoulder like a sack. The Damsel stiffened, trembling still, and Virgil had no idea what had excited the Child and the Dragon but left the Damsel a petrified mess. He didn’t even argue as the Dragon trotted out of his cell still holding him. He didn’t look up when Virgil called his name. 

The two left down the hall, the Dragon whistling a tune as his cape swept along his back. 

What the hell. Virgil sank down to his knees, watching the empty end of the hall. “What was that?” he asked, turning slowly to the Child. 

Who was still beaming. He sat next to Virgil and leaned closer, hugging him tight. “Patton kissed, uh, um, Bard!” he said, “Patton said he loves us!” 

Oh. Virgil hugged the Child. Patton...was in love with Roman. Okay. So that was why he was a little out of it while they were in here, that’s fine. He didn’t even feel the theoretical pain that should be coming from the wound in his side. He was a little….numb.

Patton and Roman. That was fine! 

It was fine. 

Virgil ignored the yearning that yanked at his heart, didn’t dwell on the tears that pricked the edges of his eyes. That was fine. 

“We’re gonna be Roman again,” the Child said against Virgil’s arm, “I know it.”

For the first time in this entire escapade, Virgil found that a part of him didn’t want that. A small, miniscule part, wanted one of the different figments of Roman to trapeze into the cell and sweep him off his feet. Wanted to be able to love Roman.

He wished he weren’t so afraid of it.


	19. INTERMISSION: friends on the other side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: massive descriptions of disassociation, being lightheaded, mentions of being dehydrated, mentions of not eating, threats of being pushed down the stairs, bandage mention ig? — i think that's all on this one!!!
> 
> a'ight i am SO EXCITED ABOUT THIS so i'm posting. two chapters. right now e w e like im so excited ive been stoked about this ball since chapter 3 — also shout out to brewed awakening, a real coffee shop that is one of my all time favorites
> 
> now *revs engine* lets-a gOO OO OOOO

_ “You’re in my world now, not your world~” _

“Why are there so many stairs?”

_ “And I’ve got foes on the other side~” _

“Wait, that’s not the lyric.”

_ “Sit down at my table~” _

“.....Fine.”

_ “Put your mind at ease~” _

_ “I put a spell on you~” _

A small, tired laugh.  _ “If you relax, it will enable me to do….” _

_ “And now you’re mine~!” _

_ “...Anything I please. I can read your future~” _

_ “Be prepa-ared!” _

_ “I can change it ‘round some, too~” _

_ “Trust in me~” _

More laughter. “Ironic.”

“Fuck off or I’ll drop you down the stairs. You started it!”

“I know, I know. It’s all almost done. I only hope Thomas is-I hope he’s okay.”

“Eh, who gives? He’ll be fine soon enough, don’t worry your bandages off. Come on, your gown is waiting.”

* * *

 

Thomas flicked his feet left and right, watching the television while paying absolutely zero attention while laying on the couch upside down. After failing to summon the Sides that morning, he’d gone to watch television, and found himself rewatching The Office again in a semi-binge state. It’d take a solid four days to watch it all but it wasn’t like Thomas had the motivation or drive to do anything else, despite the looming deadline on the new video’s script.

On any other day, he’d be able to hear Virgil screaming at him, Roman rushing around with ideas, butting heads with Logan over rewrites and edits. Patton’d pop in with some supportive words and an offer to make dinner sometimes.

But now? Now he wasn’t getting anything. It was as though all of his sides had clocked out at once — even Deceit and Remus weren’t delivering input. And whatever was holding back any of the other Sides he had (because, lets face it, Thomas had no idea how many Sides there were in total, especially not after Remus’ introduction) wasn’t letting up. So, using every ounce of deductive reasoning he had left, Thomas figured that he just. No longer had a personality.

The more he thought about that, though, the more he considered how irrational that would be. But he didn’t care enough to believe a separate reasoning? And didn’t have the focus, creativity, or capacity to think of a different explanation.

So, The Office. 

He had been sitting on this couch for upwards of twelve hours. Probably bordering on sixteen to seventeen hours, but he couldn’t count. It was long past sunset outside, perhaps the stars were out. 

An empty pizza box was sitting on the couch beside him. At least he had the common sense to eat one meal — an extra large pepperoni meal, but a meal nonetheless.

What the heck was happening?

The phone on his chin, balanced there out of boredom a few hours ago, buzzed and nearly fell off. 

Thomas’ hand smacked up to it, causing his phone to fall and hit his nose. That caused a chain reaction of him falling over, first sideways onto the couch, then rolling off the couch all together and onto the floor. 

So much for “nothing happening.” Thomas groaned as he pushed himself up onto his elbows and grabbed his phone, which had slid beneath the table. 

He flicked it on.

JOAN —> IMG0492.JPG

Ah. Thomas squinted and opened it. 

It was a Sanders Sides meme, one of the new templates. He covered his mouth and snorted with laughter, shaking his head. 

Another text from Joan dinged.

JOAN —> you alive? you missed prime coffee shop writing hours

Oh, heck. Thomas mentally chided himself. He and Joan were going to hunker down at a cafe and hash out the new script today to get it done before the deadline. Of course he forgot, like an absolute doofus. 

He began typing out a response. The thought of lying flitted through his mind, the excuse of being “out of it” wasn’t exactly the best reason. He thought for a second but he couldn’t even think of an adequate lie. Wow. Even Deceit had clocked out. Thomas probably should have tried to summon him, now that he thought about it. A little past time, but, oh well.

Alright, the truth. How the heck was he supposed to explain that he couldn’t think? Thomas pushed himself off the floor on his elbows, but winced as the weight seemed to leave his head almost immediately. He kept a hand on the couch as he sat up on his knees, one hand running through his hair and then resting on the back of his neck. 

How long had he been sitting upside down again? Goodness gracious. Part of him wanted to be worried about the repercussions of not having a coherent thought process, but the other was kinda singing Disney songs on repeat. 

In actuality, the most coherent thoughts he had held all day was the nonstop playlist of Disney songs that seemed to run through his head. 

At least that meant Roman was still kicking? That’s what that meant, right?

Oh, yeah, the text. Thomas pushed himself up onto the couch, ignoring how both of his legs seemed to be asleep, buzzing with the prickly pain of pinched nerves and a lack of blood. Lack of blood. All the blood was in his head. Heheheh. 

Gosh, he should sleep soon, he was getting light headed. Had he had any water today, actually? The thought of water made his throat run dry — no, no he hadn’t.

Focus, Sanders. He bit his tongue and typed out a response. Using both thumbs, because for some reason, his single-hand coordination was not working.  

THOMAS —> Yeah. Sorry about that, I think I’m sick or something. Haven’t been able to hold a thought all day and my head is super light.

JOAN —> thats fair, do you have tea or some soup? :( if youre that sick do you wanna push the script deadline a day or two? 

What did Thomas do to deserve Joan, they were always such a beacon of sunlight. He smiled to himself and responded as fast as he could while typing like a technologically illiterate fool, one letter per minute.

THOMAS —> That would be awesome. I’ve got tea, too. Think I’m gonna go to sleep soon though

THOMAS —> Could we push one day? And if you’re still not doing anything on Sunday, we could reschedule 

JOAN —> okay, I’ll let the team know. you get some sleep!!

JOAN —> I’m down for prime coffee shop o’clock on Sunday. 9 am at brewed awakening?

JOAN —> if you need some soupy soup let me know 

Then they sent a cat gif with hearts from Giphy. What an angel. 

Thomas exhaled and leaned back on the couch. He put his phone flat on his forehead, then crossed his arms. That was the best news to come out of today, honestly. One day was better than no days. And if he and Joan could mix up some good ideas on Sunday, then all the better. 

Hopefully that’d give the Sides enough time to figure out what the flip was happening in there.


	20. one jump ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: remus mention, heist details, wound descriptions, sword mention, scar descriptions, threats of violence, thoughts of dying — alright, im pretty sure that's it, but this chapter has thicc details so if i missed anything pls pls pls lmk 
> 
> *vibrates at the speed of fucking light but i dont want to spoil ANYTHING because HELL YEA HAH* now i gotta post the costumes on tumblr—

Deceit really was right, Patton thought while he looked around at the town. His arm was linked around Logan’s as they walked down one of the town’s side streets, from Dr. Picani’s office, and he was taking the time to admire how intricate all of the architecture had gotten. It was intricate and worn and every building seemed unique now, something that he hadn’t realized was missing during their first pass through. 

There were arch ways, bridges between doors on the third floors of buildings. There were seemingly hand-woven canvases shielding some of the streets from the sun and, if Patton squinted hard enough, he could see actual detailed stitching and some stains of age. They passed buildings that had scratches and chisel marks, and Patton could clearly see that it was made from stone bricks that had been painted over. Twice, actually. Once with a very old and faded blue, then with a lighter cream that still let the blue show through in spots where the paint was gone. 

He wondered a little what had caused those spots. Was it because you weren’t supposed to layer house paint? The spots were different sizes — how many memories were made here? 

Patton stumbled, tripping over his thoughts and heels, and leaned more into Logan’s side.

Logan tugged at his arm. “Don’t ponder too hard, Patton,” his voice was soft, hushed to not draw attention.

They’d figured that the best thing to do was to not think about the world around them. Thinking too much about the world and specifically the things that they would affect about it made their focus wander onto fixing those things. Logan would get a headache, Patton would space out, and Deceit would….well, okay, Deceit hadn’t disclosed how and if he’d been affected. But Patton noticed he’d been sweating like a sinner in church, and how his fist would clench every so often, so it was clear that something was happening with Deceit. He didn’t want to force him to talk; honesty wasn’t Deceit’s strong suit.

The four Romans had agreed that that was the smartest decision; none of them nor all of them together were able to limit the Imagination enough. The Playwright had argued that, had Dragon and Damsel known that it was hurting the other Sides, then they would probably all have a unified thought enough to close up the unused worlds. But that would require discussing the entire matter with them, which, as the Thief pointed out, is “pretty fucking useless where they are now.” 

So the focus thing was their current strategy. Patton grinned at Logan. “Thanks for the reminder, Octo-cutie-pie,” he smiled wider as Logan blushed. 

“I–I’m–Octopi is the plural for octopus and there is only one of me,” Logan bit his lip, then patted Patton’s hand gently, “Thank you.”

Patton giggled, snuggling against Logan’s side briefly as they kept walking. They hadn’t actually talked about the whole love thing, hadn’t really established boundaries, but that seemed like a problem for tomorrow. 

Right now, they were all going across town, invitations in hand, to the ball. And, at the very specific right now, Patton was admiring the Playwright and the Artist’s handiwork. They’d worked together to make everyone’s outfits and he’d be a liar if he said they weren’t handsome and beautiful.

Patton himself was themed after a cat — a grey cat, but a cat nonetheless! His dress had a long train for a tail, made of shimmering silver tulle, the same as his poofy sleeves. The skirt went from his waist to the ground, with a built in flair in his corset at the waist. Like, all of it was sparkling, all three tiers of his skirt, which went from grey to black with an inner layer gradient of blue to grey. His favorite part were his gloves, though. Silver for the most part, but with soft circles on his palms and the tips of all his fingers. His own lil’ toe beans! 

Logan’s outfit was one of Patton’s favorites. His was themed after an octopus (“Known for their intelligence,” the Playwright had explained, face bright red as he tied Logan’s necktie into an Eldritch knot) with a dark blue blazer and slacks. He wore a vest that shimmered royal blue, with a white button down underneath. There was a piece of coral in his lapel where a flower would usually go, and his coat tails seemed to spiral in shapes that resembled an octopus’ arms. There were even rhinestone bubble decals on his shoulders, or suckers, if you wanted to interpret it that way. The Artist and the Playwright had a small argument about that.

He was dashing, in summation. Patton leaned his head against Logan’s shoulder. “Who knew the town was so big!” he said. 

“That’s actually on purpose,” the Playwright said from behind them, “It’s actually not so big as the castle is small, using the same foreshortening techniques used at the Disney theme parks to make Cinderella’s castle, or Sleeping Beauty’s castle depending on which park you’re at—”

“I think he means how far Picani’s office is from the castle, God Mod,” the Thief responded.

The Thief and Deceit were walking in front, swords drawn on the chance that they ran into any guards, and so that the Thief could critique Deceit’s sword fighting skills. Surprisingly, he’d taken to the weapon, something about it being good to have at his disposal while dealing with the Others. The Thief offered to make him one once this escapade was over. 

Or maybe it was an excuse for the Thief to keep touching Deceit’s hand. Because that was happening every so often. A lot more often than would be considered normal. 

It wasn’t like Deceit was complaining about the touching. It was more the other way around. The yearning for physical contact was frustrating, but neither of them were going to admit that they wanted to hold hands. Even though they’d confessed to at least caring about each other. 

“Oh,” the Playwright hummed.

“Cheer up, butter cup, I love hearin’ bout the forced perspective! The Disney parks are so~o~o fun,” the Bard sang out. “When’s the next time we get to go to California? Are we making a trip down to Anaheim? Can we PLEASE take a trip down to Anaheim!”

One of his arms was looped around the Playwright’s, while the other was looped around the Artist’s. They had settled on outfits that complemented each other’s, pulling from the same red and black color palette.

The Artist was the only of the trio in a suit, though his outfit could be considered the loudest. Buttoned down the middle with a high collar, half of his shirt was a solid black, while the other half was a diamond checkered pattern. All of the accents were gold, and his pants were half solid red and half checkered as well. Tonight, the Artist would be a jester. 

An improvement on his self-esteem, the Bard had thought. The Artist had said so, too, saying he’d be dressing like a joke. It...was nice to hear.

The Playwright had also gone with a more light-hearted outfit, pun completely intended. He was dressed as the queen of hearts, with an A-line skirt that skimmed the ground and was almost entirely a replica of the skirt worn by the Queen of Hearts in Disney’s Alice in Wonderland animated movie. His corset had a low scoop neckline with a long heart that stretched down from the neckline to the bottom of the waist. His sleeves were poofy, black with red stripes between. 

It was a deck of cards theme between the three of them. Honestly, they took a bit of solace in their three Musketeers situation. The Bard was dressed like a harlequin in a ball-dancing dress. His entire dress was checkered, a stiff corset traded for a looser fit bodice that was sinched at the waist by a thick black belt with a heart clip. Bits of tulle were attached to his wrists, ideal for dancing in, which was perfect for the plan. He and the Playwright had matching heart chokers, too. 

As he’d said earlier, “We cute.”

Neither the Artist nor the Playwright had argued, and they had yet to pull away from him holding their arms. Maybe they didn’t hate him. 

They didn’t! They were moving beyond all that! 

Because they had to get the Child back, and Virgil back, and save the Damsel and they had a plan. Actually, they should run through the plan again, because the Bard had already forgotten most of it. 

“Thief?” he called ahead. 

“Mhm?” 

“Can we run through the, uh,” they had a code word for it, shoot, what was it? Oh! Oh, right, “The waltz again?”

“Great Mona Lisa, Bard, how the fuck did you forget how to waltz?” the Artist groaned. “We’re going to a ball.”

“No, no, no, THE waltz,” the Bard nudged the Artist’s side with his elbow. 

The Artist shot him a small confused glare, but realization struck his face quick after. “Oh. Oh, that waltz. Yeah, uh,” he turned to the Playwright, who also seemed confused, then to the front again, “Before we get in, we should go over the waltz again.” 

The Thief and Deceit both stopped as well, fingers brushing once again. The Bard saw the motion and chuckled to himself. Sweet Chopin, they needed to just hold hands already. He could envision the love birds flying around their heads. 

He felt a smidge bad, though. After all, he was the lucky Roman who got to kiss Patton. 

Logan and Patton both turned back to them. Patton let go of Logan, then looked around. They weren’t quite at the castle yet; a side alley, wide enough for all of them to stand in and with ample trees, barrels, and an open door beside it would provide good cover. 

“Let’s go over there,” Patton grabbed Logan’s arm again and led them all into the alley. 

They grouped up into a small but tight circle, the Thief pulling them together. He was in a suit, and an ironic one at that. Originally his costume was intended for Deceit, but he suggested switching them, so that the Dragon would think he were Deceit while being less suspicious. He was themed after a snake, though the theming was less noticeable than the color palette; there were yellow sequins arranged in scale patterns across his black blazer’s forearms, and his vest was black as well, undershirt yellow, and bowtie black. It looked a little like a snazzed-up version of Deceit’s lawyer suit and, though he’d tell no one, the Thief loved the look.

Deceit had said it looked nice on him, too. The bowtie, specifically, but also the entire outfit, and also the Thief simply looked good — yeah, they were both kind of messes. Gone was the ability to seamlessly flirt, apparently.

Still, it was nice to see Deceit in something other than yellow for a change, too. He was dressed as a peacock, with no blazer but a side-cape that shimmered iridescent purple and green. Part of it had blue and green rhinestones inching up the shoulder, and his vest beneath was teal, while his undershirt was mint green. There were bands on his upper arms, keeping his shirt bunched back, that were dark blue. Even his ascot was an iridescent purple and blue. 

They leaned against each other in the huddle. Brown eyes trailed all around the group, meeting similar expressions of steely determination. 

They could do this. 

“Alright,” the Thief started, “For the first hour, we’re gonna scope out the room and surrounding rooms. Meet wherever the snacks are in pairs, alternating pairs, and spread details. Patton and I will go twice.”

“Because you and I are gonna peel off after the first hour to go get Virgil and the Child,” Patton said, meeting the Thief’s eyes.

The Thief nodded. He looked around at everyone — Deceit and the Bard had both been fairly defensive about that choice, but he argued that they needed people who were good at causing distractions on the floor. Patton would be the best at comforting both Virgil and the Child, and the Thief was the only one who had any inkling of what the inside of the castle looked like. 

He continued. “Right. We’re gonna try to get out and—”

“Say, what d’ya think that’d make us?” Patton asked, a tiny grin on his face. 

“Oh, no,” Logan groaned, “Not—”

“Cat burglars!” Patton exclaimed with a giggle. 

The Bard immediately broke out into a fit of giggles, leaning into Deceit a little as he did so. Deceit just rolled his eyes and patted the Bard’s back, letting him cling to his side. 

The Artist stifled some chuckles of his own, and the Playwright grinned. Oh. Oh, no, not the idea grin. 

“I think Dragon will be hard pressed to find flaws in our purr-fect plan,” he said, eyes shining as Patton laughed as well. “We’re just gonna have to distract him with our adorable kitty-Pat.”

Logan groaned again, in good humor this time. “I thought you were supposed to be on my side, Playwright,” he grumbled. 

The Playwright immediately sobered up, mouth pressing into a line. “Ah, Logan, darling, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Hey, but,” the Bard raised a finger at the Playwright, smile wide and mischievous, “If he catches wind of anything, you, Artist, and I can pull a wild card and deck him.”

That got the Artist and Patton to both laugh aloud, and even Logan smiled a tiny bit at the Playwright, if only to reassure him that his frustration was not directed at him.  

The Thief seemed actually annoyed, though. He snapped his fingers in the center of the circle. “C’mon, focus here. Patton and I are going to get Virgil and the Child, then we’re going to come back up to the ball room at the second hour. At that point, Deceit—”

“I’ll be dancing with Dragon and, once you’re back, I’ll be distracting him enough for you to get out,” Deceit waved his hand, also slightly exasperated. He wanted Virgil back immediately and, as the time to pull off their hest approached, he grew more nervous.

“Right. Then, Playwright will take you backstage once everyone else has filed out,” the Playwright nodded to the Thief regarding his involvement, and the Thief looked around the group once more, “All of that sound good? Everyone else, be on the look out for Damsel. We don’t know where he’s gonna be. If he’s out on the ball floor, Logan, you—”

“I will approach him and explain that we are here to get him out,” Logan grimaced, “If he is not on the ball floor….”

“Then I’ll be on standby to head into the dungeons,” the Artist said, smile deflated, brow furrowed in thought.

“Good,” the Thief patted his shoulder, gripping reassuringly, “And if Remus is there, then Bard is going into the dungeons with Patton and I’m staying in the ball room to kick his ass.”

“This all sounds like a plan, Thief,” the Bard said, smiling at him, “Logan, thoughts?”

Logan huffed, frowning at the ground. He’d rolled the details over in his mind a few times, so he’d already worked out some of the issues, such as the irrationality of the original plan’s “jump out the dungeon’s windows, really, how large are the windows, and how do we know it’s not underground.” For right now, it seemed as though the plan were efficacious, but they couldn’t be certain until it was enacted. 

But at that point, it’d be too late to change the plan to any degree of impeccability. They would have to wing it. And Logan wasn’t a fan of that. 

But what choice did they have?

“It is as detailed and as faultless as we can arrange for it to be currently,” he said.

The Thief’s mouth twitched into a slight grimace, but he nodded all the same. That was as optimistic as he would be. “Once this is all over, we meet at the tree as fast as we all can get there,” the Thief said, casting one more look around, “If we pull this off right, no one’ll be leaving alone. If your partner gets injured, you carry them to the tree.”

“I don’t think….” the Artist said, frowning a tiny bit as his voice trailed off. 

The possibility of injury was very high, actually. Death for the Romans, at least. And they didn’t know if the Dragon had injured Virgil or the Child. To be honest, they didn’t know if the Child was alive. Oh, goodness, what if Dragon had killed him? 

“It’s gonna work,” the Bard said, “It’s gonna.” 

He squeezed the Artist’s arm and gave him a nod. It was going to be okay. Roman was optimistic by nature, and the Artist did crave that sort of positivity. 

“It must,” Deceit affirmed none too positively. 

“It will,” Patton said, smiling at them all again before clapping, “And break!”

Everyone stood up on instinct. Then, they all shared slight laughs, small smiles.

The Bard leaned over and hugged Deceit with an arm, reciprocated a little. Patton leaned against the Artist, who didn’t hug back, but also didn’t flinch finally. 

They were getting somewhere. It was going to be okay. 

It was going to be okay. 

….Without Virgil, they all felt as though their optimism was naively placed. But that was why they were going to get him back! 

Once he was back, Deceit thought, he was never letting go again. If he was back. No, no, once he was back. He was coming back soon. 

“Let’s go,” the Thief pulled his mask out from his coat, a black half-face mask covered in yellow sequins arranged like scales.

Everyone shared looks, nodding to each other as they slid on their own masks. Logan, Patton, the Artist, and the Playwright all had special masks that mimicked their glasses prescriptions so they wouldn’t need contacts, too. With faces obscured, they nodded once more, squeezing arms in reassurance and patting backs and giving smiles, and hurried out of the alley. 

The Playwright walked at the front of the group, the only one not paired to any Side. He looked up at the sky. A storm had grown, clouds angry and grey above the castle, which was only a few blocks away now. Perhaps it would thunder during the ball. 

He wondered vaguely what had caused the sudden shift in weather. During their week alone, it was all sunny skies. 

Was it….

No. No, no part of Roman was that desperate, to have gone to Remus. Right? He’d been telling himself that ever since they’d begun this game, but the darker their future seemed, the more he worried about the Duke’s involvement. 

The Thief seemed to think it was very real, enough to have a back-up written into the plan. C’est la vie. Such was life, he thought, the show must go on.

They walked quietly for only a few minutes. The closer they got to the castle, the more Imagination inhabitants they saw walking around them, some in pairs, some in groups, some alone. Everyone was in costume, most intricate. Good. This would be good, for coverage. The Thief had been a little worried that the ball would be sparsely attended, but this was good. 

It was going to be okay. 

They approached the drawbridge. Patton leaned against the Artist, gripping his arm tighter as the wind picked up. The Thief and Deceit were stoic behind them, and Logan and the Bard were simply quiet, though their hands were interlaced tight. It was going to be okay.

A line had formed on the bridge, in front of one man in a suit, perhaps the medieval equivalent of a bouncer. The group shuffled into the line, looking around at the castle, at the moat (“I think it’s filled with alligators,” the Bard murmured to Logan, who shook his head and was about to respond that that didn’t make sense, until an alligator’s maw jumped up and snatched a low-flying bird) and at the sky. 

Angry, angry clouds. 

It took an excruciatingly long eleven minutes for the Playwright to finally reach the front of the line, but when he did, he immediately grinned. He had to hand it to the Dragon. 

“May I see your invitation?” Zac Efron asked, dressed in a black butler’s outfit.

Bless the Imagination’s castings. The Playwright handed over his invitation, and Zac looked over a list in his other hand before handing back the invitation and checking off a name. “You may enter to the ball room,” he motioned to the door. 

The Playwright curtsied and hurried in. Behind him was the Artist and Patton, both of whom gasped a little, becau se holy shit, it’s Zac Efron. 

The Dragon was really out here casting Thomas’ celebrity crushes as butlers. It was the first thing that the Artist had wholly agreed with the Dragon on, actually. Once they were Roman, they were going to have to look into that as a possibility. 

One by one, each entered, walking down a grand hall with a ceiling so high and so vaulted that there seemed to be a sky inside. But, then again, there probably was. This was the Imagination. It looked somewhat like the Great Hall from the Harry Potter movies, this time shining with stars and constellations. 

Logan could identify Aries and Pieces. That was actually accurate for the season and hour, so he gave a mental kudos to Roman for his design, then considered if it were his knowledge that had been used to perfect the stars. Well. That was inconsequential, I guess?

The hall was also lined with suits of armor, and bannisters adorned with Roman’s full crest. Though, Deceit noticed while he walked through, the entire crest was outlined in gold and the castle in the center was colored with grey and brown and black. He thought the Dragon was only supposed to be the outer tower and walls. If the Dragon called all of the shots around here, then why was the center tower also colored?

The walk was long, heels clacking against the stone. They turned with the carpet to the left and entered through a pair of double doors that had to be at least two floors high. 

Inside was life. The room was massive, stretching almost the size of a football field. There was a stage near the entrance door where there were musicians (with undetailed faces, Deceit noticed) were playing loud enough to echo across the room. The dance floor seemed to take up about half the room. 

Farther away from the entrance were some circle tables, arranged around with some citizens already sitting down. Further back were some long tables, food stacked atop them, and even further….

The throne was elevated so the Dragon could see across the hall to the dance floor. The Thief’s fists clenched immediately upon seeing him wearing the Prince’s attire, white uniform a stark contrast to the black he was typically adorned with. It was a jarring difference. 

He was taunting them. By Doc Holliday’s pistol, they were gonna take him down.

Beside his throne was a large Ottoman seat, where there was another figure. The Damsel, most likely, though his face was obscured by a sheer red veil and distance. He was wearing a large dress, which had a triple-tiered skirt that seemed to flare out orange, then red, then black. His corset was decorated with red and orange and yellow rhinestones, and raised behind his head. It almost looked like flames. 

Burned. The Damsel’s scars were also entirely visible, scabs on his arms angry and red, clearly not fully healed. They weren’t openly bleeding, but the Playwright could tell that they would start bleeding at some point in the night. 

His nose scrunched as he examined the pair. They didn’t seem to notice him, the Damsel leaning against the throne’s side and not moving, the Dragon stroking his chin and looking across the hall absently. He had a sword sheathed beside the throne, too, with its handle sticking up in an easily accessible manner. 

He was waiting for them, he realized. Of course he was, this was a trap, you fool. You knew this. You’d planned. It was going to be okay.

The Playwright turned back to the group just as the last pair, Logan and the Bard, entered. 

“Okay. I am going to move toward the snack table,” he nodded toward the thrones, “Octopus, would you like to join me?”

Logan let go of the Bard, who curtsied and stepped back, and then offered a hand to the Playwright. “It would be my pleasure,” he said, “How about we acquire a table, Hearts?”

The Playwright nodded, then shot the Thief a look. “Snake,” he said, a promise, a warning, “Let’s waltz.” 

“Let’s,” the Thief responded, squeezing Deceit’s arm. 

The Bard and Patton had already taken each other onto the dance floor, hoping to not be conspicuously waiting in a group by the door way, and the Artist was meandering around — nope, no, he just asked an Imagination citizen to dance. Blending in well. 

Operation save Virgil and the Child was a go. 

* * *

 

Virgil could hear the faint music from above. He squinted up, then closed his eyes and exhaled. What’d that matter? 

His side was throbbing. It seemed that just wrapping a bandage around a wound did fuck all to stop it from hurting, or bleeding, especially if it was just wrapped once and around the front. Virgil would have to remember that for the next time he got stabbed by an evil Dragon, he thought snidely. 

He and the Child had relocated themselves to the bed. Pretending to not be panicking was tiring, but luckily for him, the Child had fallen asleep. 

He sniffed quietly, rubbing his eye with the butt of his palm. For the past half an hour, ever sine the Child fell asleep, Virgil had been silently crying. And there was no Damsel to conjure him a glass of water or tell him it’d be okay. Because he knew it wasn’t going to be okay. 

Even if he didn’t die in the Imagination, he’d be exiting it alone. And that was fine! 

The Child snuggled closer to his chest, tiny arms wrapped around him. Virgil sniffed again and hugged him tight. 

If he did nothing else, he’d at least protect this Roman. 

He wished he’d at least told Roman how he felt. 

Maybe he’d never get the chance. 

Gosh, this was really fatalistic, even for him. It wasn’t like he was gonna die in the Imagination. 

Virgil shielded his eyes with an arm and, as illogical as it was, wished that he could use that one arm motion to block out the sounds of the ball going on above. Shit, he was gonna die in the Imagination. 

….Usually that’d freak him out a bit more. Maybe he’d bled out to the point where he was too tired to be worried. And, maybe it was childish, but he really did want to dance with Roman. 


	21. bibbidy bobbidi boo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: alcohol mention (wine), threats of violence, torture mention, broken bones, bruises, scars, pain descriptions, crying — i think that's it !!! but as always, let me know if i missed anything <3 
> 
> gonna be real.,....,, it has been So hard not outting this chapter sooner. i like to think there was build-up, foreshadowing, etc, but as an author i never know if it was enough (especially without a second pair of eyes lma o o o ) (tho my process of "final edit while posting on AO3" would be shattered if i had an editor OTL)
> 
> hope you enjoy! love you all <3 <3 <3

_ “Salacadoo lamenchicka boola bibbidi-bobbidi-boo~” _

“How in Smaug’s name do you have that memorized? Whatever. That one, over there, octopus costume. Who do you think that is?”

“Hm. Logan, maybe? Octopuses are intelligent creatures. ”

“Hm. I don’t know. He is very tied to, well, his necktie seriousness. That’s got a fancy knot.”

“An Eldritch knot?”

“Yeah, whatever. It can’t be him. Maybe that’s Playwright.”

“That doesn’t seem like a good metric for—”

“Ooh, THAT’S probably Deceit.”

“Snake? Okay, that’s definitely a disguised version of us. Maybe Thief? He’s wearing gloves.”

“No, that’s definitely Deceit. He likes his snake themes.”

“But wouldn’t that be too obvious? Deceit wouldn’t just wear more snake themed clothing. That might be Logan, if any of the real Sides, I can imagine that—”

“Oh, can you?”

“.....” 

“That’s what I thought. Besides, they’d never think of using a decoy. I didn’t even think of that! And the others aren’t nearly as smart as I am.”

“....Okay.” 

“I’m going to keep watching. Go walk around.”

“My legs…”

“Oh what? Your legs hurt? Got some bruises? Broken bones? Glass bones, paper skin? Stop whining, Kingdom Hearts-break.”

“Okay, Dra—”

“Ah ah. Say it.”

“....Okay, your Highness.”

* * *

 

“Is it a Merlot?” the Playwright asked.

“It’s a blend, I think. Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon,” Logan swirled the glass of wine in his hands and took another whiff of the nose before handing it back to the Playwright, “Mostly Merlot, though.”

They had found a column near the drinks table to claim as their space, both leaning on the column and watching the dance floor. The others were walking around, dancing, talking, as spread out as they could be. It was a large ballroom, after all, and intricately designed. The ceiling sparkled with candles that danced around a large chandelier, some attached and some not, floating around the faux sky that adorned the top. 

The grandiloquent nature of Roman’s long-term creations meant they had to work hard to find an exit. Meanwhile, the Playwright and Logan held down a space that could serve as a base of operations for their heist, even if it was simply a corner close enough to the door and throne that they could see both. 

The Playwright hummed in approval at the wine and took a sip. Then, he scrunched up his nose and handed the glass back to Logan. “I don’t like it.”

“Really? Do you not like wine, or this one in particular?”

“This one. Well, any of this Imagined food,” the Playwright picked up his glass of water and sipped it, a little less tense, “I prefer the Mindscape over the Imagination.”

“May I ask why?” Logan shifted, turning his back to the crowd and watching the Playwright, “You’ve mentioned before, and in your notes, that it’s unpleasant for you. That seems contradictory considering your role as a Side.”

A valid question, even if it was direct. “I don’t quite understand it, either. I should probably like the Imagination, but I just. Don’t. I prefer the tangible creation of stories and the more grounded existence we have elsewhere.”

“That makes sense.”

“It’s more logical,” the Playwright shrugged, shoulders tensing as he fixed his posture, becoming acutely aware of himself. 

Therein lies the issue. Walking through the Imagination and hearing the different facets of Roman really emphasized the immaculate detail-work that they demanded of Roman, that was demanded when one was Creativity. Logan was coming to appreciate it. 

Logan raised his glass, clinking it against the Playwright’s carefully. “Cheers. But it’s my job to be logical. You should not overwhelm yourself with trying to emulate me when we are two wholly different facets. That means neglecting, even resenting your current job.”

“Trust me,” the Playwright spotted the Bard in the crowd, watching him be dipped by another citizen of the Imagination — not a character, just a remembered face — and sipped his water, “We aren’t at resentment yet, but that is...comforting to hear. Especially from you.”

Logan smiled, and the Playwright held his arm. He took another swig of the wine before continuing. “Thank you, Logan. I have...always thought you are...cool.”

To that, Logan chuckled, sipping his own drink. “Really?” 

He sounded as though he were inviting more discussion about how cool he was, and the Playwright laughed as well, nudging his arm. “I guess the liquor’s loosening my lips.”

“Hm, a well known trope. Alcohol-induced idiocy,” the Playwright snorted at him again, shaking his head in mock despair. Logan grinned, then leaned closer, almost whispering in his ear. “I’ve noticed it’s a trope you touch on quite often when I am present.”

The Playwright turned to face him, shock written across his face. Between his mask’s framework, Logan could make out his cheeks flushing deeper and deeper. 

Because, how could he not be? Logan? Logic? Was flirting? Was FLIRTING?

Oh, Jonathan Larson, give him strength. 

The Playwright cleared his throat and leaned against the column, doing his best to smile casually. “‘ _ As an unperfect actor on the stage, who with his fear is put beside his part,’ _ ” he quoted.

Logan smirked, crossing his arms slightly. Of course. He was a playwright, afterall. “ _ ‘Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart’ _ , Shakespeare’s sonnet twenty three?” 

“I promise, I don’t need alcohol to accidentally be an idiot in front of you,” the Playwright set his glass down on one of the column’s protrusions.

Whatever the moment was, whether soft or flirty or an expansion of whatever was already established, was interrupted. The Playwright felt someone nudge his back, then pull him forward into a twirl and dip, and he laughed as he did so. 

An old foe, or friend, or a piece of himself the same. The Artist helped him up and patted his back. “Wonderful reflexes, Nerdaholic,” he said, “Sorry if I interrupted anything, but I didn’t peg you and Aris-total Nerd for the flirty types.”

“Oh, no, no, flirting? Noooo. We were just….talking,” the Playwright glanced at Logan, who nodded in a wide-eyed and vaguely panicked agreement, just talking, before turning back to the Artist, “Very well, Vincent van Goth, is it time to switch?”

“Yeppers piping peppers,” the Artist winked at Logan, “Have fun.”

Logan opened his mouth, confused, as the Artist carefully took his wine glass. His questions were answered, however, when the Playwright grabbed his arm and tugged him onto the ballroom floor. Flirtatious once again. Good for him, it was unhealthy for him to be stowed away backstage like he always was.

The Artist tipped Logan’s glass against his lips and finished the rest, setting it aside with the Playwright’s. It was hard to believe that the hour was almost up, but time flew when one was having fun, didn’t it? He leaned on the column and scanned the crowd for his pair.

Patton was saying goodbye to the gentleman he’d been dancing with. He bunched up his skirt and slowly made his way up from the dance floor, making eye contact with the Artist and smiling. A few strides and he was there.

“Whew,” he said, fanning himself with his hand.

“Thirsty?” the Artist asked, standing up straight, “I’ll grab some water.”

“Yeah, wow!" Patton leaned on the column, watching the bodies spin and twirl each other, a mesmerizing group of figures and colors. When the Artist came back, he was resting his head on his hand and cast him a warm smile. "Thank you — who knew dancing could get so tiring?”

“It is a sport, and takes a lot of movement and energy,” the Artist said, handing Patton a glass of water, “It’s fluid.”

“Fluid like….water?” Patton raised an eyebrow, giggling into his cup.

“Pun not intended,” the Artist said, hand covering his mouth but not succeeding at hiding his grin.

His smiles were so shy, so uncertain. Patton loved it. Gosh, he felt like the floodgates had been opened, because he could LOVE! 

He looped an arm around the Artist’s and leaned his head against his shoulder, snuggling up to his side, while the Artist stiffened just a bit. But he didn’t move away. Progress! 

The Artist carefully bent up his own elbow, and rested his hand over Patton’s. A lot of progress! 

Why was it progress? Wait, wait, first, follow up.

“But it flowed so well!” Patton said, voice airy but excited by the thrill of the pun, “It just streamed out, didn’t it?”

The Artist snorted, squeezing his hand gently. He wasn’t shaking, but he was stiff. Why was he so stiff? It’d happened a few times, and the way the Bard shot away from him when kissing, and how the Playwright nearly threw them off when they first met. But that in contrast with how the Child just didn’t let him go at all.

There was definitely something there. There had to be! And Patton was gonna figure out what was wrong with Roman.

“Yeah, well….whatever,” the Artist rolled his eyes and shot Patton a small smile before looking out at the crowd again. 

….Gosh. 

Patton’s voice dropped to a whisper, a breath perhaps. “I love you so much.” He leaned his head against the Artist’s side, letting their shoulders press. 

He heard the Artist sigh, a tinge of disgust, maybe a little unease too. 

“I dunno if I’m the best one to be talking about love with,” the Artist nudged with his elbow into the crowd, “Bard’s over there.”

“But you love me, right?” Patton asked, more stern.

“Of course I do, sunshine, but—”

“You love Deceit and Logan, right?” 

“Yes, but that doesn’t—”

“And you love Virgil?”

The Artist finally relented. He exhaled, shoulders loosening a little, though not all the way. “....With all my heart,” he said, voice tender and quiet.

Patton loosened as well, not noticing the tension and apprehension that’d been building. Of course Roman loved them. It wasn’t that. 

“....We love you too. We’ve just gotta get Virgil and get….Roman,” the Artist nodded for Patton to continue, though his fist clenched just a little, the vague thought entering his mind asking if that meant he wasn’t Roman, but of course he wasn’t, not fully, you KNOW this, Roman. Patton noticed his fist, though, and immediately held his hand before continuing, “I wanna get both you kiddos to safety before we have a big discussion about this. ‘Cause I love you both, and I love Deceit and Logan, and if we’re talking about all of us loving each other, then all of us should be there.”

The Artist exhaled. He couldn’t argue with that. 

“You’re right as always, Papa bear.”

“What’s he right about?” the Artist turned to see the Thief approaching, a glass of wine in his hand.

The Artist waved his hand in greeting. “When isn’t he right?”

Patton chuckled, poking the Artist’s arm with a finger deliberately. “When I’m writing, I’m left” he joked.

Both the Thief and the Artist snickered, the Thief’s hand shooting up to hide his mouth while the Artist just turned and hid his face in Patton’s shoulder. As he did, Patton leaned in, giving him a bit of space. If he didn’t want to be touched, Patton wasn’t going to push too hard. He looked up at the Thief, grinning still. “Time to go?”

The Thief nodded. “Uh huh. Artist, time to fuck off,” the Artist snorted and stood up straight, flipping off the Thief, who rolled his eyes and continued. “We’re using that door. I know it takes us to the stairs, and from there I think we’ve just gotta go down.”

“Alright,” the Artist frowned, then turned to Patton. 

He smoothed his hands down Patton’s arms, and Patton grabbed his arms back, a determined smile on his face. “It’s gonna be okay,” he said, “I know it’ll be okay.”

The Artist wished he could be as optimistic as Patton. Something….was worrying him. But he wasn’t sure if it was worrying him, or worrying Roman as a whole. Maybe another one of them knew. 

“Sure, Pat,” he looked at the Thief, who nodded in permission, then leaned forward and kissed Patton’s head quickly. “Good luck.”

The Artist nodded to the Thief, who gave him one tiny head tilt, then he hurried into the crowd. Almost immediately he was swept up by a character, one of the princesses from a Vine, and they began to dance. Patton watched him, watched how the Artist even flinched away from the imagined characters, leaning away and dancing almost at a distance. 

There was definitely something there.

Somewhere, right when the Thief took a sip, a bell chimed. It rung out nine times, then silenced. That was their cue. 

He finished his drink and set the glass down. “Are you ready, Patton?” 

“Yep," Patton looped his arm around the Thief's and gave him a determined grin, Let’s go!”

On their way out, the Thief nudged Deceit. “We’re going,” he said, “Good luck.”

Deceit was standing by another wall, sipping a white wine and watching the dancers. He glanced at the Thief with a small smile. “To you as well. Don’t do anything I would.” 

The Thief watched Deceit’s yellow eye morph away into a softer brown, knowing that beneath his mask his scales were softening down as well. A little bit of help, to convince the Dragon that he was one of the Romans. 

No idea if it’d work, but, hey. Better than nothing. 

Deceit finished his glass of wine and set the empty cup on the tray of a nearby waiter. His gaze followed the Thief’s tailcoat and Patton’s dress train out the side door, then he looked up at the throne. The Dragon’s eyes were trailing around the rest of the crowd, seemingly not noticing the Thief and Patton’s disappearance. 

He must have taken the bait, then, and was looking for Patton and Logan. Of course, the possibility was there that he’d made the connection between the grey Cat and their resident cat loving Side, but part of the ruse was to confirm that “Deceit” was there in order to make him start looking for the others with obvious theme-ing. Granted, Deceit thought they were both pretty obvious, but that was a digression.

While the Dragon was sitting at his vantage point, the Damsel had entered the crowd. That was probably a safe and easy way to inch closer to the Dragon. Plus, Deceit wanted to talk to him. Confirm a few suspicions.

Face still veiled, he was dancing with a — goodness gracious, wait, was that Mena Massoud? 

Deceit squinted. Huh. Well, that tracked with Zac Efron playing the butler.

He inched closer and, once the Damsel was delivering his final curtsy, tapped his shoulder.

Deceit could barely see his face through the veil, but he saw the Damsel meet his face with a slight look of shock. 

“Greetings, sweet Peacock,” the Damsel said, voice tender and airy, holding out a hand covered in scars.

“Hello, your Highness,” Deceit noted how the Damsel flinched, and again stiffened when his hand rested in his, “May I have this dance?”

The Damsel gave a shaky grin. 

Deceit squinted. 

There had to be more. What wasn’t he telling him? What didn’t he know?

“That would be lovely.”

And they danced. 

Deceit spun him and pulled him close again, in time with the music. The Damsel’s dress sparkled with an iridescent sheen, mimicking flames as Deceit’s cape mimicked feathers shimmering. Through the veil, the Damsel was watching his face with a solid, unreadable expression.

This wasn’t what Deceit had expected. He hadn’t expected unreadability — that simply wasn’t Roman’s style. 

“You look—”

“Deceit.”

What. Deceit did his best to hide his surprise, eyes still brown, scales still hidden and then again beneath the mask. But what the fuck?

“I’m sorry, are you talking about the Side?” Deceit asked.

The Damsel’s smile widened, but his eyebrows pinched apologetically. “Oh, Deceit, you slippery snake,” he let himself be twirled, Deceit was dancing absentmindedly now, it was an afterthought, a precursor to trying to mentally disassemble the Damsel, “The Imagination’s inhabitants don’t usually know about the Sides. Some of them do. Dad, Teach, Prince — who I think is doing okay?”

“The Prince?” Deceit asked, hollow, grasping for anything. 

“No, no, Prince Guy. But that’s off topic,” the Damsel held his waist carefully, “I know a full Side when I see one.”

He leaned in closer, smiling at Deceit with a slight squint, as though daring him to deny it again. “Lie to me some more, Master of Deception.”

Deceit opened his mouth, but couldn’t find the words to say. He hadn’t expected the Damsel to be so….astute. And difficult. This wasn’t supposed to be difficult, this was Roman, and Roman was the easiest Side to wrap his head around. Right?

His silence was apparently welcomed. The Damsel continued to lead them in the dance, humming quietly, motivations unknown still. Deceit wasn’t fond of unknown variables, either, and having the Damsel be such a stark difference from what he’d expected made him worried about their plan. 

Pull yourself together, you should be using this opportunity. You understanding things you don’t understand. Okay, no, that was Logan, but you still had to try. Deceit shook his head and squeezed the Damsel’s shoulder. “Very well,” he said quietly, “How are you, Damsel?”

“I’m….Okay, if I’m being honest, my leg is fractured and I’m in quite a bit of pain,” the Damsel bowed his head away from looking Deceit in the eyes, “Though I’m happy to be dancing with you.”

His leg was broken. Deceit’s protective instinct kicked in, and he immediately pulled the Damsel closer, hoping to help him take some weight off of the leg. "Your leg is broken?!"

It was, admittedly, not a thought out motion. The Damsel stiffened, then elbowed him in the chest. “Space,” he grunted, “I-I’m handling it, I’m-It’s—”

He was growing flustered; he’d overstepped. Deceit let go, felt the Damsel relax, and they turned in the dance. 

Go slow. He had to go slow.

But, goodness, he couldn’t bear to see the Damsel dancing on a fucking broken leg. Deceit bit his lip and looked around at the Dragon, still sitting on the throne, legs thrown over one side while he leant against the armrest. 

“If we help you leave, will you come with us?” Deceit found himself asking.

“Leave what?” the Damsel asked, frowning beyond the veil.

“The Dragon,” Deceit was trying to make this as clear as possible, hands tight on the Damsel’s waist and shoulder, “When we come to get you, will you come?”

The Damsel tilted his head. “What’s there to get?” he sounded confused.

Deceit’s voice grew hardened. “You.”

“No,” the Damsel laughed, a soft, breathy and terrified sound, so different from Roman’s full-throat guttural guffaw, and shook his head, “No, and what of virtue is there. I’m the weak link. And I’m….pa-pathetic.”

“On the contrary, you are the linchpin,” it hurt, it hurt, it fucking hurt. But Deceit had to explain against his nature, he had to, he was so close, but close to what he didn’t know. “Would Thief be as opposed to Dragon without your demonstration? Would Artist have known to hide, Bard felt the need to make music for a desolate world, Playwright have known to protect the Mindscape’s entrance backstage?”

The Damsel scoffed. “Stop trying to make me sound heroic,” he breathed, “Dragon cau-caught me. He made himself the villain, and I’m just-I’m collateral. Expendable.”

“How’d he catch you?” Deceit was interrogating now.

“I….He just did,” Roman was on the witness stand again, the one and lonely, so alone.

“When? And with whom?”

“‘With whom,’” the Damsel repeated, frown deepening with anger, or something else, Deceit didn’t know, he couldn’t know, “You can’t manipulate me.”

“I’m not manipulating anything,” Deceit snapped.

The Damsel flinched backward, and Deceit exhaled. Calm down. It felt like a jolt, like a rush, the truth. “Figuratively,” he continued, trying to explain without gritting his teeth to bear it,  “My gloves are off. I just want to know why you’re doing this. The Romans, their memories, the timeline of events that we’ve learnt. They don’t make sense.”

“You’re being so honest, Two Doors, doesn’t it hurt?” the Damsel’s voice was now more frantic; that wasn’t him. 

“It does,” Deceit conceded, voice soft, “You can say it yourself, save me the energy. You know quite a bit more than the others, about what being a Side is like.”

They stilled, sliding off toward the back. The Damsel glanced up at the Dragon, who (the idiot, the fool, but if he was a fool then what was the Damsel?) was still sitting bored. Then he returned his focus to Deceit once more. That wasn’t him. “I won’t. Because it’s not true.”

“I just want to know what changed, Roman,” Deceit ignored how the Damsel flinched, continuing and pressing for information despite the burning in his throat and lungs and everything against his nature, “What happened to make the Prince so unchivalrous?” 

There was silence at Deceit’s question. There was music, yes, there was still the gala around them. But if you asked Roman later, all he could remember was staring at Deceit’s eyes, one brown, one gold, jaw set tight in betrayal of his pain. 

….This really had been quite the quest, hadn’t it? He let a small chuckle and, slowly, he lifted his veil. Beneath it was an eyepatch covering his left eye, decorated with red roses, but that was beside the point. As he leaned forward against Deceit’s chest, he could see how dewy his expression was, eyes red and cheek flushed from recent crying. Perhaps he’d been crying this whole time. 

What struck Deceit the most was how much he saw. His eyes were telling — windows to the soul, a metaphor they’d heard once — and showed that the “Damsel” had known so much more. Had known what it was like to be a whole, known the pain of splitting once already and was experiencing it again for the second time. Had watched the bloodbath knowing what every movement, reaction, decision meant. Had been Roman, once upon a time. 

This was the Prince. Or, rather, what was left of him.

“Haven’t you heard, my dear snake,” the Damsel’s — no, the Prince’s hand played with the hairs at the back of Deceit’s neck, arm now slung slightly around his shoulder, “Chivalry is dead.”


	22. mother knows best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: blood, blood loss, wound mention, sword fighting, broken bones (mention), Remus mention, fire, kissing, child abuse? (the Child pops the fuck off), the dungeons — i think that’s it? but if i missed anything, please let me know!
> 
> it has been a weird weird weird weekend, but here we are!!! given that chapter 23 is more than halfway written, the next update shouldn't be t o o far off. also i . ., gently reworked the entire ending, hence this is coming out a lil' late. 
> 
> enjoy!!! <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

As soon as they exited the ballroom, Patton untied the bow at his waist and slid down. The Thief held onto the skirt —  a hoopskirt —and Patton crawled out from the front. He’d been pretty adamant about wanting to wear a dress, so they had to make it easy for him to slip out, and he had leggings on beneath. Easy for running. Just in case. 

“C’mon,” the Thief whispered, taking Patton by the arm and helping him up. 

Patton nodded to him, then they turned down the hall. The walls were decorated with light pink floral wallpaper, not dissimilar to a certain shirt Thomas seemed to enjoy, and there were paintings hanging up. Most didn’t look as though Roman had done them, as they were OF him. Maybe he did do them and they’re just caricatures of what he wanted to be? Wouldn’t that be upsetting. It also didn’t seem like the kind of thing Roman would do, considering that….

It was all disgusting. The Thief’s nose crinkled, shooting glares at each one. What a waste, they could have put up some real art. 

They turned left at the end of the hall, hurrying to where they’d found a staircase earlier. Voila, nestled between two tapestries was the entrance to what seemed to be a tower’s spiral staircase. The Thief went in first, drawing a sword out of his jacket.

Wait, what? Patton blinked at the sword, then looked at the Thief’s jacket, which was flicking up in the rush. There definitely wasn’t enough room in that to have a sword that long. Ah, well, that was….interesting? 

He shook his head and followed. Their footsteps, as soft as they were, echoed up and down the stone stairs. Hopefully they weren’t as loud as the echo was having them believe. Soon enough, they reached the first landing below the ballroom.

“What’s that?” Patton whispered, pointing to a tapestry. 

It was of Remus — morning star in hand, raised victoriously while he stood atop a golden dragon, surrounded by thorned vines and red ribbons. While Remus was the central focus, there was a sword stuck into the ground beside the dragon’s fallen head, a red fabric wrapped around the handle. 

The Thief frowned. He thought this was Roman’s castle. Didn’t Remus have a separate one? Why was this here?

Vaguely — and he thought it was his imagination because it couldn’t have been a memory, no way — he could recall being in pain. A quest that’d gone wrong. Being pinned to a rock as the heat built up, about to be burnt. The sound of a monster being bludgeoned. A pale hand coated in blood to help him up. But that was probably just a dream, right? He didn’t have access to Roman’s memories, so it had to be.

“I don’t know. It looks like the Duke doing something stupid,” the Thief turned away, continuing down the stairs, “There’s only one more level.” 

Patton frowned at the Thief’s back for a few seconds before following. Did he not remember what Roman remembered?

He guessed that’d make sense, with the way that all the Romans had split up, but the thought made Patton a little sad. He didn’t have much time to think about it, though, as they got to the last floor. The Thief’s arm was stuck out to stop him, but he didn’t need much prompting. 

There were two guards at the very bottom, in full armor, hands on their swords. Their backs were to Patton and the Thief, which gave them the advantage of surprise, but Patton’d been hoping they wouldn’t have a confrontation. He looked at the Thief, who was inching closer, dress shoes sliding silently against the stone. Before he could ask what the plan was, however, the Thief planted one foot and used the other to roundhouse kick one of the guards against the wall.

“Patton, go!” the Thief grabbed him by the back of his corset and shoved him between the two guards. 

Their swords met the Thief’s, and he drew a second, smaller sword from inside his jacket. (Okay, Patton was sure that those swords were longer than that jacket! The Imagination really was something, huh!) He held the sword tight and drew it upward, slashing between one of the guards’ chest plates. That guard collapsed. 

Patton turned away, jogging down the hall. He heard another body fall, certain that it was the other guard, and stopped at the end. Here, the dungeons cut off into two paths, one left and one right. He didn’t want to waste time looking up and down both, so he cupped his hand around his mouth. 

“Child! Virgil!” he called down the hall in a stage-whisper, “Kiddos, it’s your Pop, and we’re gonna pop you outta here!” 

Farther down the hall, Patton heard a soft exclamation. “Dad?!” 

His heart settled. That was the Child. He looked back and saw the Thief jogging after him. Patton began down the left hall, checking into every cell.

Meanwhile, the Child had climbed off of the bed, cloak off and wrapped around Virgil’s body despite how it was too small to actually wrap around. His white shirt had a small bloodstain, and his hair was messy, and he was a little grimy all around, but that was okay. Dad was here. And hopefully someone else. They were saved!

“Did someone say s’mthing?” Virgil asked, voice soft but gruff from the bed. 

He’d been a little distant ever sine the adrenaline wore off and he didn’t have the energy to get up. It’d been wearing off little by little, too. That was okay, though, because someone was here! And they were saved! Virgil was going to be okay. “It’s Dad,” the Child said, jumping back over to Virgil.

He patted Virgil’s face, turning his head over, but Virgil swatted his hands away. “I’m okay, kid,” he definitely didn’t sound fine, but the Child didn’t want to argue with him, didn’t want to stress him out, “Where are they?”

“Just outside. Dad!” the Child directed the last exclamation towards the bars.

“Child!” Patton came into view quickly, leaning against the bars and reaching his arms through them, “And Virgil!”

“Hey, Patt,” Virgil waved one hand but didn’t sit up.

His voice sounded weak. Patton winced. Had they been hurt? The Child seemed fine as he rushed up to the bars and hugged Patton’s arm, pressing his head into Patton’s outstretched hand. But Virgil’s lack of movement was worrying.

The Thief arrived soon after, stopping right beside Patton. His shoulders untensed a little and a small smile found his way to his mouth. 

“Oh good, you’re okay,” the Thief murmured, stretching an arm in to rub the Child’s hair. 

The Child giggled a little and rubbed into the Thief’s hand, but then bit his lip. They weren’t super okay.

“Virgil’s hurt,” he said, voice soft, “The Dragon stabbed him in the side a lil’ and-and he hasn’t gotten any treatment.”

The Thief scowled. He looked up at Virgil, who was still laying down, and a small flare blazed itself in his stomach. “The Dragon….,” he was going to behead him. “God fucking damnit.”

“Language,” Patton hissed, before turning back to the cell, “Virgil, kiddo, how’re you feeling?”

A tired grumble was his response. “I’m okay. Just hurts’a little.”

“Well, keep your eyes open, we’re gonna get you out,” the Thief drew his arm back and looked over the cell.

“How? We’re locked in,” the Child said, shoulders dropping as though he’d just remembered as well, “We can’t get out.”

For a moment, Patton’s chest clenched, and he could feel Virgil panic as well. They hadn’t considered that there wouldn’t be a way to open the cell. 

He jumped when the Thief laughed, carefree, humored. The Thief handed Patton his sword and reached into his jacket.

“Are you kidding me?” he said, leaning on the bars now, “I’m not called ‘Thief’ for nothing.”

The Thief took out a small pouch and knelt down in front of the cell’s bars, unraveling it at his feet. Patton looked down at it, grip tightening on his sword. It seemed to be a series of pick-like tools. Pick like. They were lock picks, duh.

First, the Thief picked up a small cylinder, a flash light, and turned it on. He held it in his mouth and examined the lock. Then he began looking through the different picks. 

“Kee’ wa’ch on da ha’way,” he said, motioning to Patton.

Then he turned to the lock. 

Patton exhaled slowly and turned the sword around in his hand. He’d never held a weapon like this. Kinda had been hoping he’d never have to. He could be like Captain America, using a shield to protect the ones he loved! He didn’t need a….stabby pointy thing. 

Still, this was what they had, and if push came to shove, Patton knew he’d do it. He looked down the hallway, still empty. All was silent, too, save for Virgil’s labored breathing and the click of the Thief’s lockpicking tools. Gosh, Virgil was hurt. The Thief had healed fast, but Virgil might be different. Patton tried to not let the worry clench him too tight, but really, how couldn’t he worry? Virgil was bleeding. He’d been stabbed! The Dragon had stabbed his kiddo! And had hurt the literal kiddo, the Child. 

There was something wrong there, with Roman hurting others, including himself. Roman had cut himself across the chest, he’d kidnapped and thrown around another part of himself, a part of himself even stabbed Virgil. And then there was the Damsel, a part of Roman that seemed like he’d been beaten to heck and back. Yeah, sure, the Playwright had said some stuff about all of them loving him, but Patton could tell there was something….more. There was another piece to solving this Roman puzzle that just wasn’t falling into place. 

And, by God, Patton was gonna figure it out. He had to keep his family safe.

A soft click behind him drew his attention back to the world around him. Patton turned around and saw the Thief whip the cell’s door open. 

He rushed in, Patton close after, and hugged the Child immediately. 

Patton hurried in toward Virgil. He knelt by the bed and leaned in, but then put a hand on Virgil’s shoulder. He was sleeping. He was….his eyes were closed. And, yes, his chest was moving. Just sleeping. 

Virgil’s eyes opened when Patton touched him, flying open only to dull half-lidded almost immediately. He had lost quite a bit of blood — was it even possible for them to die? Patton wasn’t sure. And he wasn’t sure if whatever rules they had in the Mindscape were the same as those in the Imagination. He wouldn’t put it past Roman and Remus (the later more the former) to have death as a viable ending in here, though, and he wasn’t willing to risk it.

“Hey, Pat,” Virgil said, teeth gritted as he pushed himself up, “Are you...wearing a dress?”

“Nope. Only half a dress,” Patton carefully held Virgil’s chest, above the stab wound, and helped him sit up, “Can you stand up?”

“I can manage,” Virgil exhaled, then drew in a deep breath. He looked up at Patton and grimaced. “You don’t need me weighing you down.”

To that, Patton immediately frowned. “You only ever lift me up—”

Virgil chuckled. “If you call me a shadowling one more time, I’m gonna go feral.”

Patton snickered, too, and shook his head. “Nope. C’mon, I’ve gotcha.” He wrapped an arm beneath Virgil’s shoulders and his other beneath his knees. Then, he picked Virgil up, squeezing him against his chest.

Oh. Oh, wow. Virgil hadn’t realized how strong Patton was. He wrapped his own arms around Patton’s shoulders, wincing as the movement tugged at his wound. Fuck, it really did hurt. The pain was almost entirely canceled out by the blood rushing to Virgil’s cheeks because Patton, fucking Patton, was lifting him against his chest, and he could hear his heart beat, and he felt so insurmountably safe. 

“It’s okay, honey, I’ve got you,” Patton’s voice was much softer, whispering into Virgil’s hair. 

This was so nice. It was such a shame that….

Virgil squirmed a little, trying to push away. “You don’t need to carry me,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “You all have other things to worry about.”

“Woah, woah, but you can’t walk! And what other things? I’m all worried about you,” Patton held on tighter, fixing his grip on his legs. 

“Well, now you’ve got more things. Your boyfriend’s in enough trouble as is,” Virgil shot the Thief a glare, who didn’t catch the look as he checked the Child for any injuries. 

Boyfriend? Patton blinked. Oh. Oh, yeah, Virgil was far out of the loop.

“I don’t think you’ve gotta worry about that, Virge,” Patton murmured into Virgil’s hair.

“Of course I’ve gotta, I’m all about—”

Patton hated interrupting any of them, but he couldn’t think of a way to tell Virgil that he was invited into their love without him second guessing it instantly. So he pressed his lips against Virgil’s, kissing him gently. 

When Virgil immediately stiffened, Patton was worried that he’d overstepped. Of course he shouldn’t have kissed him just outright! What a stupid move. But then Virgil hugged him tighter, grasping to the back of his corset and pressing against him even more. Desperately. Patton giggled a tiny bit, elated that he finally got to kiss all his crushes. Oh my goodness gracious, when they got back, he could kiss Logan. And Deceit! He could kiss them all. What lovely times to look forwards to.

When they got back, though, which had to be soon. As gently as he could, Patton snuggled Virgil against his own chest. And, as much as he wanted to keep kissing him, they had to get him to safety. So Patton pulled away as slow as he could, pressing one more kiss to Virgil’s forehead and looking him over.

Virgil’s eyes flew open, looking over Patton’s face as his mouth opened and closed like a fish. Stunned into wordlessness it seemed. 

“Ya can’t spell love without V, V,” Patton said, grinning at him, “We’re gonna get you home, then we can talk more about this all, okay? All of us.”

Virgil’s mouth was still a bit open as he nodded, unsure of what else he could say. Because Patton had just kissed him. He thought Patton was in love with Roman? Did that mean….?

Patton gave him a warm smile before turning around. “Thief, we’ve gotta….”

The words died on Patton’s throat as he saw the Thief and the Child hugging, the Child playing with the Thief’s hair. He was hugging the Thief’s front like a koala as the Thief stood, one arm supporting him up while the other wrapped around his back, rubbing the Child’s shoulder.  

“‘M okay, I told you,” the Child was whispering, hands on the Thief’s head, gently patting as though he were playing bongos, “I’m all good.”

“I know, I know,” the Thief hissed, face buried in the Child’s shoulder.

It was then that the Child caught Patton’s gaze. He shrugged, giving him a small smile. “He was worried.”

The Thief stood straighter, eyes keeping away from Patton, but the Child tapped his head. “Let me down, I can walk. You need to swordfight,” he said, then cut off the Thief’s protests with, “I didn’t get hurt. You’re still hurt, right?”

The Thief pulled back to glare directly at the Child, who returned it with a grin. After a bit of time, the Thief lowered him down, grumbling incoherently the entire time.

That seemed like a good time to interrupt. Patton cleared his throat and squeezed Virgil. “Hey, Thief,” the Thief looked at him, “Mind telling Virgil what you told us earlier? At Dr. Picani’s office?”

“Picani? Like, Cartoon Therapy Dr. Picani?” Virgil asked, frowning. 

The Thief ignored Virgil’s question to raise his eyebrows at Patton, confused for only a second. Then, he turned to Virgil. “Oh, yeah. Roman’s super in love with you. Like, he’s in love with all of you. But he’s also in love with you, too.”

Virgil blinked. “Oh,” that was certainly a twist that he hadn’t expected, “Oh?” 

“Mhm,” the Thief looked up at Patton, motioning for Patton to give him his sword back, “We should get going. The guards probably noticed we were missing, or at least that there’re two dead guards outside.”

Okay, whiplash from that aside, Virgil squeezed Patton’s shoulders tighter. If there was going to be a fight, he should probably get involved. But, when he moved his arm off of Patton’s shoulder, a searing pain shot up his side. 

“No, no moving from you,” Patton said, frowning at him and gesturing to the bed with his head, where he’d left the sword prior, “You and I’re running, the Thief’s gonna take care of the fighting.” 

“But he’s….” Virgil looked up at the Thief again, who’s hand was tight around his sword as he led the group out of the cell, “You’re still hurt right?”

The Thief shrugged. “Not as much as you. We’ve got weird ways to heal here. We just gotta get you to safety first.”

“But what if you GET hurt?” 

“C’est la vie.”

“He’s NOT going to get hurt,” Patton shot the Thief a glare, “Because he’s gonna be careful.”

The Thief rolled his eyes, ready to retort, but another voice beat him to it.

“Au contraire, the Thief’s heisting days are over.”

They all stopped in the hallway, looking up. The Damsel stood in the hallway, hands folded and rested on the top of his skirt. His mouth was set in a tight line, as though disappointed in all of them. Other than him, though, there was no one.

This shouldn’t be a problem. They wanted the Damsel to come with them, anyway! To save him from the Dragon’s clutches. The Thief tilted his head, inspecting the Damsel’s scars. Many matched his own, from Roman’s escapades in the past, but some were very new, probably done this past week. For a moment, he wondered what part of Roman the Damsel represented.

“Yeah, hopefully,” the Thief said, holding his sword out in front of Patton and the Child, “And hopefully your distressful days are over, too. You can come with us.”

The Damsel’s scowl deepened. “I can’t.”

“Why not? We can get you away from the Dragon, protect you. You don’t have to be hurt anymore,” the Thief argued.

“Please,” Patton whispered, “We need you.”

The Damsel turned to Patton, expression softening. He bit his lip looking at Virgil, then shook his head. He couldn’t go with them. He didn’t deserve that.

“I cannot,” the Damsel straightened his back, voice soft and kind. He wanted Patton and Virgil at least to understand why he was doing this — why the Prince couldn’t come back. “It is my sworn duty to help Thomas achieve his dreams and, as it stands, I’ve done nothing but fail him. Fail you all.”

“That’s not right, Damsel. You’ve done a lot,” Patton took a step closer, ignoring how the Thief’s sword pressed against his legs, “You’re—”

“Is that Damsel?” Virgil hissed, opening his eyes at him, “Oh, fuck.”

“Mh?” Patton looked down at Virgil, who was glaring at the Damsel with the most vehement anger. 

He was even more confused when the Child hissed, anger laced through his voice, “You.”

The Damsel bowed his head, but they could still see him gnawing on his lip. 

“You-You’re a coward,” the Child snapped.

“Woah, hey,” the Thief said.

“You’re an idiot and a coward and the stupidest Prince in the entire Imagination,” the Child yelled over the Thief, hands balled into fists at his sides.

The Damsel actually flinched, jerking up and taking a step back. “I’m not, I’m not-not.”

“You ARE but you’re too much of a baby to admit it! We need you to be strong but you can’t be! Because you’re a big baby!”

“You shut up!” the Damsel screeched, reaching behind himself and pulling his sword from its sheath; had that been on his back this whole time? He leaned forward, gritting his teeth in pain but determined to hold his ground.

The Child, though, was also determined. And full of insurmountable rage. “I hate you, stupid Princey!”

“Jesus, kid,” the Thief rubbed his thumb against the handle of his sword, “When’d you get so confrontational?”

The Child didn’t respond, just continued his glare-match with the Damsel. It would have been comical to see him glaring and fighting anyone, but at the current time, they were all a little too stressed to appreciate the comedic genius. Plus, the Thief was confused about another thing.

“Why’s he calling him Prince?” the Thief mumbled to Patton, who shrugged. 

Wait. Oh, wait. Patton squinted at the Damsel, who was now pointing his sword at the Child, both screaming at each other. The Damsel’s dress had morphed into pants, with flames made up of sequins on both pant legs, and he took a step towards them all. As soon as it landed, though, he winced. “What’d you say earlier, ‘bout the Prince disappearing?” Patton asked, “What if he changed his name?”

“I….” the Thief’s eyes widened, and he turned to the Damsel. He shoved his sword between him and the Child, deflecting his blade. 

The Damsel looked up at him, fury in his eye, and it clicked. Of course. No one else. The Thief lunged forward with his sword. 

“You’re the Prince,” he hissed.

“He IS the Prince! And he’s a bad one!” the Child snapped, grabbing the Thief’s second sword from his hand. He wrapped both of his tiny hands around the hilt and raised it just in time to block a strike from the Damsel. “We need you to be YOU!” 

All the Damsel did was screech and redouble his attacks. Whatever put-together-ness he had formerly was gone, replaced with a passionate fire that seemed to burn around him, an almost-familiar flame that Patton was sure he’d seen before but he couldn’t place it.

Patton was shifting his weight between his feet, watching the onslaught happen. On one hand, he needed to get Virgil to safety. He could feel his arm wetting from Virgil’s blood, and it was sickening, and he needed to get to safety. On the other hand, he couldn’t just LEAVE the Thief and the Child. And he didn’t want to leave the Damsel, either. 

It was surreal. The Damsel was their prince? Patton watched — okay, wait, no, the Child just parried one of the Damsel’s strikes and now Patton’s mental Dad alarms were going off. The children shouldn’t be sword fighting! What if he got hurt? 

Patton stepped forward, holding Virgil tighter, and fully intended to interrupt between the fight. But then the Thief grabbed one of his puffy shoulder bands. 

“You need to get Virgil outta here,” he said, face set in a grimace, “We can hold off the Damsel.”

“We?!” Patton squeaked, glancing again at the Child.

Who sunk his small sword right into the Damsel’s thigh, garnering a howl of pain. Patton jumped back, and the Thief sighed. He opened his mouth, turning to Patton again, but then froze. In fact, the Damsel and the Child behind him froze as well. 

They all shimmered right before Patton’s eyes, forms flickering in red and gold for a second or two, similar to what had happened when he’d kissed the Bard. Maybe that meant someone kissed someone else? He wasn’t sure. It passed much faster, though, and they all stumbled back. 

The Damsel recollected himself first, shouting nothing and lunging toward the Thief with his sword. He deflected, and the Child kicked him in the shin. Typically that wouldn’t have hurt, but the Damsel’s leg was still broken, and he shouted in pain. 

No, he had to fight. He couldn’t fall back now. He had to fight, because he couldn’t let them escape. 

Soon, Remus would set it off, and then Roman wouldn’t have to worry about the pain anymore. Soon they’d all be aflame. The Damsel pushed himself off and went for the Child again, who just screamed incoherently.

While he did that, the Thief shoved Patton with an arm, giving him a stern and desperate expression. “Go, go find Playwright,” he said.

“But-But you and Child,” Patton started, looking again at the ten year old with a sword.

The Thief shook his head and pushed him again. “No, YOU need to go!” he didn’t wait for an answer as he turned back around to the Damsel and the Child, deflecting one of the Damsel’s advances with a grunt.

Patton couldn’t just leave! He needed to help, he needed to do something, he—

Virgil groaned quietly.

Gosh darnit. Patton squeezed him and turned around, sprinting toward the stairs. He cast one more glance down the hall. The real surprise was how well the Child was fighting, all things considered. Patton couldn’t dedicate much time to that thought, nor the worry, because if he gave so much of an inch to those feelings….

Ugh, he’d never tell, but he was starting to understand the sentiment of “uh oh, feelings.” Patton  rushed to the stairs then the two flights, praying that the halls were void of guards. Bingo bongo, no guards, and he flew past the paintings, the tapestries, between the halls, and saw his dress skirt against the door they’d come from. He had to find the Playwright. He had to find the Playwright, and Logan and Deceit, and they could all teleport out. Easy! 

Patton hurried into the ballroom and saw the Artist and the Bard almost immediately, dancing together. They untangled themselves once he entered, and the Artist opened his mouth to say something, likely a greeting or some kind of worry or something.

And then the first fire fell from the ceiling.


	23. hellfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Remus mentions, mentions of broken bones, mentions of wounds/stabbing, delirium, pain (a lot of pain), a lot of fire, things on fire, panic, unconsciousness, kissing — if you want anything else tagged, let me know!!
> 
> *laughs for the rest of my life* this has been a wild week and i'd be lying if i didn't say writers block shook my hand earlier, but this weekend is finally a chance to. have absolutely 0 responsibilities. and just Write. 
> 
> i am so so so dummy happy about the revelations in this chapter y'all we're almost there. we've almost reached Peak Roman

The Dragon was objectively the best Roman. He was charismatic, beautiful, sturdy, strong. An exhilarating specimen indeed. Yet, despite all that, even he could admit that it was probably a poor decision to let the Damsel dance on a broken leg. 

He was squinting at the guests, now sitting upside down on the throne. Maybe the Damsel fell over somewhere and crawled beneath one of the tables? Or he could have run back off to the dungeons to hide? No, wait, he wouldn’t have gone to where Virgil was. He might have fled to one of the towers. He was a coward, after all. Maybe he didn’t want to see the success of their plan, which was weird, because he’d been fairly enthusiastic in the plan’s formation.

The Dragon puffed some smoke, frowning at the guests. He was bored, but it felt so good to sit here above everyone else. 

He felt his eyes linger back to the Octopus, standing beside a pillar and talking to someone else dressed as an elephant. Throughout the night, he kept feeling his attention slide back to them, as though bewitched. They could be the Dragon Witch, in all honesty, having cursed him with stealing his attention.

The Dragon shook his head, erasing the thought from his mind. He wanted to speak to the Octopus.

Carefully, he rolled off of his throne, landing on his feet at the top of the small stairs to the throne’s platform. He clicked his heels at the top, pivoted, and began to walk through the crowd. 

It was honestly not as hard as he thought it’d be. Most inhabitants, as soon as they saw him approach, simply stepped out of the way. They even broke dance to move, watching him walk. 

Oh, the love and adoration. He thrived in it. Who cared that they were watching with mingled fear and disgust? He still owned his image. The Dragon was wonderful!

“Finally joining the plebians, I see?”

The Dragon raised an eyebrow. He’d been approached by the Peacock, who had matched pace with him wading through the crowd. A citizen of the Imagination, unafraid of him? Intriguing. Still, his eyes glanced to the Octopus quickly before he turned his attention to the intrusion. 

“Yes, well, what’s the point of a ball if I don’t engage in a little dancing?” the Dragon smiled a showstopping grin, pointed teeth glittering in the candle light, “Are you enjoying yourself, Peacock?”

The Peacock tilted their head and, for a moment, the Dragon cursed the masks. He could barely read expressions to begin with, how did he expect to read anything with just ones’ eyes visible? Was he having fun? Did he hate him, too? Oh, the Dragon sort of hoped to be hated. It seemed like an adventure that Roman never indulged enough in. 

“It’s been fun, of course, but I’ve been waiting to dance with the true star of the night,” the Dragon blinked as the Peacock offered him a hand, “Would you do me the honor?”

The Dragon looked at their hand, then back up at the Peacock’s face. He couldn’t keep the mingling of confusion and dejection from his own expression. For the time being, he didn’t want to dance with the Peacock. He was fairly stubborn, his mind still trailing back over and over to the Octopus.

But, even stronger, he was a gentleman. He was….a royal. He was better than a royal! 

He thought of the most recent bell’s dinging. They had time. They still had time.

The Octopus could wait. Carefully, the Dragon took the Peacock’s hand and lifted it, kissing the back. 

“I would love to,” he hummed.

The Peacock smiled back, and immediately slid closer, one hand resting on the Dragon’s hip while the other held his hand. The Dragon matched him, a hand resting on the Peacock’s shoulder. And they danced. 

It took a minute or two of silent dancing for the Dragon to realize that the Peacock’s hands were trembling. “Are you cold?” he asked, voice careful. Perhaps he WAS afraid.

Not soft, low, Deceit thought. He was still tingling, the stiff-muscle pain induced by the truths discovered with the Damsel — the Prince — the Damsel, who’d noticed how pained he’d become. He’d left Deceit at a seat, at one of the tables, before disappearing to “retrieve a drink.” Of course, neither of them believed that, and when the Damsel didn’t return for a few solid minutes, Deceit decided to put their plan to work. Regardless of the clenching of his throat and ringing in his ears.

Was this a product of the Imagination? Or of his own hubris? He couldn’t figure it out. But a little pain wasn’t going to stop him. 

“Just a tad. I don’t have a blazer or jacket,” he spun the Dragon out.

“Oh,” the Dragon spun back closer, leaning into his chest, “I could make it warmer for you.”

“Your presence is a flame in my heart enough,” Deceit smiled warmly at him, “I’ll be okay.”

In a paradoxical way, that statement made him feel a little better, then worse again. He tried not to wince, continuing, “May I ask the purpose of wearing such….outdated fashion?” Might as well play to the audience.

The Dragon barked out a laugh. “It is outdated! But it’s a statement,” he glanced down at himself, then shrugged, “I’m not a fan of the white, though.”

“What sort of statement, Dragon King?” 

The Dragon rolled his eyes to that. “You’re not gonna go for the Dragon Prince pun?” 

Peacock smiled, too, mostly at the Dragon’s overly fond expression. “I’m not Patton, dear,” the words slipped his mouth before he could stop them.

Had he outed himself? No, it seemed not, as the Dragon chuckled in response. “I can see that. Speaking of which, I haven’t been able to find any of the true Sides tonight,” he looked around at the crowd before turning to Deceit. “Do you know of any?” 

Hm. Well. 

Deceit pressed his lips into a tight line, but did his best to smile. 

This Roman couldn’t be that stupid, right? 

“No, actually, I haven’t seen any.”

The Dragon nodded, and Deceit had to physically stifle a laugh in his throat. “Darn. Thank you, though, my dear Peacock.”

And he’d thought the Bard was dense. “My pleasure,” Deceit’s limbs loosened, masquerade assisting in making him feel fluid once more, “Though, if possible, I’d like to extend this conversation to a more quiet place.”

The Dragon raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You want to dance more?”

Deceit shook his head. “If there is time later, yes, but I would much rather simply….talk.”

His voice was a slight bit more hoarse. He winced, then cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure if his throat could hold up for a whole discussion with the Dragon, that much was obvious. Would it be too cheeky to….

“And, if we’re going to be talking, would you mind if my friend accompanies?” 

The Dragon frowned. His friend? Wait, were they actually just gonna talk? Peacock wanted to talk to him? 

Wait, someone wanted to talk to him? Not just dance with or use? Wait, was that dance an effort to have a conversation with him?

The Dragon couldn’t wrap his head around that.

Meanwhile, Deceit looped his arm around the Dragon’s and carefully pulled him toward Logan, who was leaning on a pillar and talking with who Deceit had presumed was another character. His assumption was correct as they got closer.

“But you’re the brain, wouldn’t you be able to retain that sort of crucial information?” Logan pressed, tone more serious than the smirk on his face matched with.

“I mean, you’d hope?” Brain laughed, waving his hand flippantly, “But thinking all these thoughts makes you forget stuff, ya know?”

Logan huffed, and Brain giggled again. “But we’re thirty! Why do we still hold our hands up in ‘L’ formations to distinguish our lefts from our rights? We’re left handed, even, wouldn’t that make it easier?”

“As comedic as this argument is,” Deceit interrupted, garnering both of their attentions, “Octopus, would you be so kind as to come with Dragon and I while we talk about,” wait fuck what menial conversation were they going to talk about, “The Imagination?”

Logan raised his eyebrow. Did Deceit need his help in distracting the Dragon? That seemed to be the case, but Deceit had never needed help distracting Roman in the past, nor had they discussed Logan intervening prior. 

Brain, however, seemed fairly disconcerted by the Dragon’s presence, even though he was simply standing there and staring at Deceit. He patted Logan’s shoulder, and nodded to Deceit. “Good luck,” was all he said before dashing back off into the crowd.

It looked like the Dragon wasn’t very popular. 

“The Imagination,” Logan said, as though trying to confirm their cover story.

Deceit nodded.

…..Something was wrong. Deceit, as usual, was hiding something. It seemed that Logan would have to kick in. “Of course,” he said, nodding once and turning to the Dragon, “Shall we converse?”

The Dragon had been following fairly distantly. Not literally, because his arm was still wrapped around Deceit’s, but mentally. “Wait,” Deceit and Logan shared a look, missed by the Dragon despite him standing literally in front of them. “You really want to talk to me? Seriously?”

Logan nodded, watching the Dragon with a more determined expression. It wasn’t that the Dragon was insecure, no, but it shouldn’t have taken him so aback to be the center of attention. That, plus they shouldn’t drop their guard around the story’s supposed villain.

“Yes, that is what we said.”

“Oh. Oh, um,” the Dragon raised his eyebrows and looked around at the crowd. It was rude to stand in the center of the dance floor and he didn’t want to impede unto his subjects. And he’d never had a normal, simply talking face to face conversation with someone before. What was the etiquette of that? “Do you want to go somewhere quiet?”

Logan glanced at Deceit, who was watching the Artist and the Bard, both dancing together near the exit. Though it seemed less like they were worried about escape and more like they were trying to see who could out do each other in ridiculous dance moves. Deceit turned away when the Bard did a whole burpee squat, complete with a push up, and the Artist doubled over laughing.

Leaving this room would leave them both stranded in the case of an emergency; it would be best to stay here. 

“May we stay in the ballroom? I have never been inside this castle before,” nor have I been in this side of the Mindscape before, nor have I been allowed this close to your creations, and I don’t want it to end just yet, but Logan wasn’t going to say that. 

“Of course,” with more care than they’d expected, the Dragon took one of their hands into each of his and turned back to the front, “We can sit near the throne.” 

Ah. Well, at least that’ll provide a good vantage point. Logan and Deceit glanced at each other — Logan slightly concerned, Deceit determined — as they followed. The Dragon didn’t seem as skittish as the other Romans, head held high as he pulled them up the few steps to the throne and sat them down on the Ottoman beside the throne. Then, he crawled up into the throne himself and sat cross-legged. 

Interesting behaviour for a ruthless murderer. Logan also sat cross-legged, while Deceit leaned over his knees, watching the Dragon. 

Did he….even know who they were? 

“So,” the Dragon said, resting his head on his hand, a small smirk playing on his lips, “What did you want to talk about?”

He had no idea who they were.

“Well, Prince Roman,” Deceit noted how the Dragon actually preened at hearing Logan call him that, “We wanted to ask what your plans were.”

“My plans?” the Dragon frowned. 

“Yes. For the night,” Logan looked at Deceit, who motioned for him to continue, and why wasn’t he talking? He’d ask about it after this crisis were averted. Lacking his input was certainly making these lies a little less believable. “For you see, we’ve never attended a ball like this before, and we were wondering when the toast would be.”

That didn’t stop the Dragon from falling for literally every single one. “The toast?”

“Yes. To the Sides.”

“Oh,” the Dragon’s eyes widened. He smacked himself in the face, holding his forehead as a tired smile — tired? — slipped onto his face. “Oh, right! Yes. That should come at eleven, actually. I figured no one would want to dance after eating.”

“Dinner so late?” Deceit winced as Logan’s voice took on the tone of voice it always did when he would explain things. There was no way this would slip past the Dragon. “That disrupts the body’s circadian rhythm, making it harder to sleep and therefore more difficult to digest foods.”

Ah. There he went. Logan bit his lip, looking at Deceit’s equally fearful expression. He’d said too much.

Deceit wanted to kick in, to tell him off or something, but his throat burned so much. And at this point it felt like he was breaking out into a cold sweat. He thought having Logan lay down the truth would take the edge off of himself, but it just made him feel….worse? 

The Dragon, their everloving idiot, just grinned, resting his head on his hand. “Woah,” his voice was low, reverent and husky. “You’re so smart.”

Alright. Well. Logan cleared his throat and reached his hand to fix his glasses but, finding that they were not there, simply fixed his mask. He couldn’t deny, it did sound nice to be called smart a little more. As it always did.

“Yes, he is, isn’t he,” Logan looked at Deceit, who was watching him with a similarly smitten expression. His brow pinched, and Deceit winked at him, and oh my goodness, they’d have to discuss this conduct later.

If Logan was gong to dish out the flirts, then he had to be prepared for it to be served back. Deceit’s lips curled up into a smirk, watching Logan redden beneath his blue mask, and turned back to the Dragon. Who was, surprisingly, still in the dark as to what was truly afoot. 

“Well, along with that, your Highness, we were wondering just how YOU are doing. You’ve just taken power recently, correct?”

“I….indeed, I have,” the Dragon straightened out his posture, leaning over the throne’s armrest as he described his plans. “I have many creative endeavours I would like to pursue! Romantic as well — there was a beautiful fellow we saw at the last audition we attended, and I fully intend to obtain his phone number. Along with that, there is the new video coming out soon, and we simply must prepare!”

Those were all pretty standard Roman plans. You could even argue that they were pretty responsible. Wasn’t this supposed to be the villainous Roman?

“Mhm. And what do you plan to do about the others?” Deceit asked. The hoarseness in his voice had cleared enough to be audible, but speaking still felt like sandpaper rubbing his skin. 

“The others?” 

“The other sides?” Deceit waved his hand toward the crowd. “Logic, Deceit, Morality, Anxiety.”

“Oh. Oh, I….I mean,” the Dragon coughed, then looked up with a brash smile full of bravado, grasping his fists and gesturing upwards, as though he’d just won a victory. “I fully intend to woo them! Sweep them off their feet!”

“Just you? Or Roman in full?” Logan asked now.

That was THE question, right? The Dragon leaned on the throne’s armrest again, a proud smile on his face. “At the end of this all, I intend to be Roman in full.”

Deceit’s brow furrowed. Hm. The other forms of Roman had mentioned that that was the Dragon’s ultimate goal, but something about his tone was off. As though he... “I don’t know if they’d like that. What’d you do with the others?”

“Why wouldn’t they? I’m the best part of him,” the Dragon was much more confident about that. 

“You’re one part,” Logan held up a single finger as he explained. “But every part is equally necessary.”

“But all the other parts are so shitty,” the Dragon said, making a flip-flop motion with his hand, “They can….oh, I don’t know. But I don’t need them.”

“No, they aren’t. Every bit of Roman is necessary, and flawed, and beautiful. Denying those bits would be very bad indeed,” Logan frowned

The Dragon, however, squinted at them both. Logan raised an eyebrow, daring him to question this. It’d been a long day. An incredibly time-consuming, energy-consuming, drawn out display of insecurity. Couldn’t they just retrieve Roman and take him home finally? 

“...You aren’t just some citizens of the Imagination, are you?”

Logan smiled, and Deceit hid a snort behind his hand. It was about time. “Astute.”

The Dragon laughed, too, and for once his voice was soft. He rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head, smiling at the ground. How could he be so stupid? 

He’d said all of that in front of two of the Sides? 

No, no, don’t focus too much on that. If you focus too much on how much you HAD done….

He snickered, finally mumbling “I guess I am a little dumb.”

“See, good,” Deceit balled his fists in his lap and squeaked out, “Honesty. Good.”

Logan looked at him, worried further, as the Dragon continued in that soft, confessional tone. Honesty? 

Oh. Oh, no.

“But I can’t be,” the Dragon groaned and stretched out his legs, slumping in the chair. “I need to be—”

Deceit held up a finger, and the Dragon quieted. He was acting — and Deceit almost hated him for it — honest. Fully upfront with them about himself. Deceit kind of wished that the Dragon had been lying about something, anything, because the day had been so thick with opening up that he could barely speak.

“No, you don’t,” he coughed behind a hand, then inhaled sharply. “Because we love you regardless. You’re allowed to have flaws, I feel like we’ve been-we have certainly been over this.”

He was getting impatient. Logan turned his head between the two again, considering calling the situation off to get Deceit to a safer location, before the Dragon’s quiet voice cut in. 

“You do?”

Before Deceit could say something, snappy or tiring or even painful unto himself, Logan took the initiative. He leaned forward against the throne, grabbed the Dragon’s sash, and carefully kissed his lips. 

Ah. The Dragon ran his hand down Logan’s cheek, even as he pulled back, eyes wide and focused on nothing. Logan smirked upon seeing his dumbfounded expression. It was very gratifying to see Roman flustered; he’d never realized how much cuter he could get, until he’d seen the Playwright’s reactions, and Logan pagemarked that information for later experiments, once they were without the current perils. 

The Dragon, it seemed, was just as susceptible to fading into a gold mist as the rest of them. His form glowed red for just a second before Logan pulled away.

Deceit rested a hand on his lower back as he sat back down, probably trying to comfort, or thank. Logan gave him a knowing look, which he returned as a teeny smile. 

They were really falling into this silent supportive love easily. It was nice. A silent love language, that Logan had almost yearned for. Something he never knew he truly wanted until it became a need. He loved the boisterity of Patton and Roman, yes, but he hadn’t thought that Deceit could be so subtle. Then again, what else would Deceit have been? Not nuanced? 

“You do?” both of them looked up at the Dragon again, who was watching Logan with tears prickling at his eyes, “Flaws and-and all?”

Deceit nodded, and Logan put a hand over his. It was clear that the honesty was having an adverse effect on him. “We do,” Logan said, voice determined. 

The Dragon beamed, nodding a little. That was...unexpected, to say the least. He looked out at the dance hall, mind still distant, and—

The Queen of Hearts was watching. The Dragon frowned, then tilted his head. That was a little weird, why had they been watching. He motioned for the Queen of Hearts to approach; what character had just watched a Side kiss him?

Wait, which fucking Side just kissed him? Was it Logan? Oh my goodness, did the Prince call it? He probably super called it. Oh my goodness, Logan just kissed him. 

The Playwright, eager to learn of their new standing with the Dragon, was at the first step when the fire began falling from the ceiling. He yelped, the mask on his face fading away into a pair of glasses, and immediately conjured an umbrella. A flame-retardant umbrella. The burning bits of whatever slid off of the sides as he now sprinted up, sliding over to shield Logan and Deceit and the Dragon, who jumped in surprise upon feeling the first flame. Logan and Deceit curled in on each other almost immediately, Deceit pulling Logan against his chest in his immediate preservative nature. Because, oh my, there was fire falling from the ceiling.

Visually, it looked a little like bright yellow and red rain. There were shouts across the hall, characters diving beneath tables with table cloth that soon after caught flame, hopping around and away from the burning bits that came in waves and scattered areas.

It was chaos. 

Oh, my goodness, it was chaos. 

“It’s RAINING FIRE?!” Deceit shouted, turning to the Dragon with an angrily bewildered look.

“Oh, from the murder holes,” Logan looked around the edges of the umbrella, “Curious.”

“Excuse me, the MURDER HOLES?!” Deceit snapped, voice cracking and turning to a hiss at the word “holes.”

“Ah, yes, um,” the Dragon looked at the ceiling, then at the Playwright.

He squinted. Wait. 

“Oh. Playwright,” he pointed at him, less accusatory and more confused, “Hello.”

“Dragon,” the Playwright nodded in greeting, “Are we still at odds?”

That was an interesting way to ask if the Dragon was going to kill him. He raised his eyebrows, looking at Logan and Deceit, then at the Playwright. Still concerned, Logan grabbed the Playwright’s hand, but the move was relatively unnecessary. The Dragon couldn’t bring himself to want to hurt the Playwright, nor any of the other Romans for that matter. 

Ruefully, the Dragon realized that none of the other Romans had been dumb enough to partner with Remus.

Oh, yes, speaking of Remus. 

A loud pang of laughter sounded from above the ballroom, and everyone flinched. “Was that,” the Playwright grumbled, and the Dragon clapped his hands.

“Wonderful! It’s Remus,” he made a gesture of success, though his face seemed to be contorted into more of a grimace, “Great giggling Gaston, this was a dumb plan!”

Deceit’s hand jumped up, gripping Logan’s arm. Logan glanced at him, alarm poorly hidden, and noted Deceit’s downcast face. Something was definitely the matter. He wrapped his arm around Deceit’s waist and held him tight, trying to support his weight. For once, Deceit didn’t fight back. 

The Dragon stepped out from the umbrella and, before any of the others could shout at him, touched a bit of fire. It burned on his hand, burning away part of his sleeve and exposing the shimmering red scales that covered his arm. The Dragon didn’t seem phased by the fire, however, as he whipped back around to look at the others in apology. 

“It’s-we had a plan, a stupid plan, a plan to get all of the other Roman forms in one room and then set it ablaze with Greek fire. He can still conjure anything, a power the Prince and I were lacking, and, well,” the Dragon grinned sheepishly at the other three, who watched him with equally horrified expressions, “I don’t know. He thought it’d be fun. I thought it’d be fun.”

“You didn’t stop to consider that inviting every one in the Imagination would ergo doom EVERYONE?!” the Playwright wasn’t exactly worried about the Dragon killing him, not after that confession. He was more angry. “And that the SIDES would be here?”

“You listened,” Deceit almost screeched, voice crackling more than the flames around them, “To REMUS?!”

“Hang on, the Prince?” Logan asked, raising his finger.

The Dragon put his hands on his hips, the fire burning away the white princey uniform to show his original red uniform and black sash. “In MY DEFENSE!” his voice grew haughty yet again, “The moon was full and we were left unsupervised!”

Logan squinted. Wasn’t that….a quote? From a meme? 

Deceit, on the other hand, simply nodded and leaned against Logan. That drew his worry, and he immediately grasped the other by the shoulders, holding him steady. “Deceit?”

“I’m afraid I’m doing quite well,” Deceit’s shaking voice and inability to stand on his two legs begged to differ.

Now that his facade was breaking, Logan could see that he was clearly in pain. It was a lie of commission, but an incredibly obvious one. Why?

“...You’re hurt,” Logan didn’t mean for it to come out so accusatory. 

Deceit chuckled, taking off his mask finally and rubbing his face with a trembling hand. “Honesty has always been easy,” the easiest defensive mechanism was to lie, even if the lies came out sounding ridiculous. “And the-the increase in necessity of honesty has not been taxing. First it was easy for myself to be truthful, but now everyone is....”

Logan looped his arm around Deceit’s shoulders, then leaned down to pick up his legs. Deceit was too tired to even have a gay panic, just going limp in Logan’s arms as he muffled some coughs into his hands. Of course. The Imagination was utilizing all of their utilities to build a holistic story, using Logan’s knowledge of the setting and facts, Patton and Virgil’s combined emotional depths, that as the communication was worked out, Deceit would feel the effects of their lies being unraveled. 

“You should have disclosed that sooner,” Logan’s voice was soft, though it did little to hide his panic.

“I didn’t want you to—” he winced, curling into Logan’s chest more, “Son of a bitch. I thought I couldn’t do it.”

“We need to get you out.”

It seemed their whispering was overlooked by the Playwright and the Dragon, who were less arguing, and more conferring on how to best deal with the situation. “The moon is not a good role model! And neither is Remus! You know why we don’t dabble in the darkness of villainy!”

Logan was about to interrupt, something about speeding up this process, when they were all distracted toward the ballroom.

“HEY!” 

Characters were all either hiding or….oh, someone had a large yard awning set up at the other end, where many characters were scrunched beneath. The Bard, his mask gone, was strumming his ukulele with his back to the throne. While it seemed inconsequential, there was something that told Logan that playing the ukulele was creating the awning. Call it intuition. Perhaps some reasoning behind the fantasy genre’s representation of Bards. A bit of logical reasoning. Hum.

On the stairs was the Artist, holding his own umbrella. Patton was following close behind, staying beneath his umbrella’s ring of protection, and….the Dragon winced. Virgil was curled into a ball in Patton’s arms, hugging a small black cloak. Likely the Child’s. 

Wow. Virgil was wounded. 

The impacts of the Dragon’s brash actions were hitting him like a freight train. Why was he so thick-skulled? Why couldn’t he think? 

But also, he couldn’t help but admit how epic it looked, to see the fire falling like rain. To think of the daring adventure he’d created for his compatriots. 

Wow, the Child was right. He was very, very similar to Remus. 

The Dragon was dragged out of his thoughts by the Artist, who grabbed his shoulder. Immediately, the Dragon reached for his sword, but it seemed it was a greeting. The Artist gave him a small smile.

“Nice to see you thinking for once in your existence,” he joked.

A joke. Friendliness. 

That….was nice. 

This was nice. The Dragon smiled and patted the Artist’s shoulder as well. “Doing my best,” he said, withdrawing quickly as a piece of fire almost caught the Artist’s arm, “And….I apologize. For my antagonism.”

That was when Logan hissed, and Deceit fully slumped against him. Everyone else turned to look, surprise morphing to worry as Logan shifted his hold on Deceit’s now unconscious body. 

“What—” Patton’s voice was squeaking, petrified of the fire, of their hurt kiddos, of Roman, of everything.

“Patton,” he was still terrified, they were all terrified, oh my Goodness, they were going to experience death, “Patton, listen to me. Deceit will be fine. He is just tired.”

Logan was watching him, expression level through his mask. They couldn’t keep falling apart. Not right now. “He’ll be okay, Patton. It will be okay.”

Patton’s eyes were wide, watching Deceit’s body. Just when Logan thought Patton was going to yell, Virgil tiredly reached up and patted Patton’s cheek. “It’s okay, Dad,” he mumbled into Patton’s shirt, voice too tired to indicate his own fear.

Of course, Virgil was less than ten seconds away from losing his god damned mind. But they had to get out of here. Flight. It was flight time. That was the word.

Everyone was terrified around them. Patton drew in a gulping breath and nodded. “Okay. We-We gotta get outta here.”

“You do,” the Artist hissed, turning back to the Playwright.

He was scared. Terrified, really. But….someone had to be back up. Or multiple someones. 

As gently as he could manage, though, he grabbed the Playwright’s arm. “You need to take them out of here,” he said, above the yelling of characters and ideas, “You’re the only one who can travel freely around the Imagination.”

The Playwright’s already worried expression sank into alarm. “And leave all of you?!” he snapped, eyes wide behind his mask, “Artist, that’s ridiculous!”

“No, he’s right, you must take them someplace safe,” the Dragon also grabbed the Playwright’s arm, watching him with a stricken expression, “Remus has more power than all of us right now, and-and….the Prince was able to convince him to help us.”

It was the Artist and the Playwright’s turn to glare at the Dragon, bewilderment written across both of their faces. “The Prince?” the Artist asked.

The Dragon didn’t meet his eyes. “The Damsel,” he corrected softly, “He’s the Prince. And he’s….I honestly don’t know what he wants to achieve. He thinks I’m a worthy replacement, but I don’t know how….I don’t know. I didn’t realize…”

With that confession finally reaching every necessary ear, it dawned on Patton and Logan that their Prince was trying to self-destruct the entirety of Roman. Even the Artist and the Playwright watched the Dragon with mingling horror and pity. He’d been played like a fiddle by the real antagonist.

Meanwhile, the Dragon crossed his arms in such a way that his gloved hands tugged at his sleeves. 

Gosh, he was so fucking stupid. He had hurt everyone. 

Virgil curled up tighter in Patton’s arms, and Patton squeezed him tighter, and they both fought off the rising desire to scream. For Patton, he just kept reverting to his Dad Friend Override and thought of how Virgil needed medical help. “We need to go, please, Virgil’s hurt,” he hissed, interrupting the moment. 

The Dragon looked at Virgil, expression hardening. He could fix this. 

Roman was the HERO, and he could fix this. 

“I’m going to go upstairs, find Remus, and, I don’t know, try to get him to stop?” the Dragon shrugged, huffing out some smoke as he did so, “I might kick his ass. He turned my bed into puddle the other night and I’ve owed him a solid sword fight since. After that, if I’m able to satiate him, I’ll assist the Thief and Child in withholding the Prince.”

“You do that,” the Artist patted his shoulder, giving him a determined look, “Thank you, Dragon.”

The Dragon smiled — a real smile, eyebrows pinched in certain worry for the inhabitants of the Imagination, grateful for the Artist and the Playwright and for everyone’s understanding — and sprant away. He ran down the hall, vaulted over a table, and disappeared out one of the doors. 

That was one situation done. Hopefully that could get the fire to stop. But how were they going to escape.

“Playwright,” he turned to the Artist, who was watching him with worry once more, “You need to take them out.”

“But,” he stumbled over his words a little, making incoherent sounds. Because, truthfully, he knew the Artist was right. “But-But you, and the Bard, and the Child, and Roman, we must, we have a plan—”

The Artist grabbed his shoulders and shook him once, rough. “Virgil is literally bleeding, and Deceit is unconscious,” his voice was a growl, “The Child and the Thief are holding off Princey. The Bard and I can create something. You need to leave.”

They watched each other for a second, understanding and acceptance slowly dawning over the Playwright. This was Roman’s story to write, and the Playwright had a role to play. He couldn’t keep hiding in the backstage areas of the Imagination. It was hiding, wasn’t it? 

Roman had to fix this. 

“....Okay,” he whispered.

The Artist didn’t say anything. For a second, actually Logan and Patton were concerned that they’d frozen. If all the Romans were interconnected, then if one of them died, would it ripple through the others? 

Virgil shied away from that train of thought and further into Patton’s chest, for comfort. 

However, their fears were unwarranted. The Artist slung his arm around the Playwright’s waist and picked him up, spinning him tight, while the Playwright wrapped his arms around his shoulders. It was meant to be reassuring. A hug, if you would. 

They didn’t want to find out what happened when a Roman died, and the Playwright was clearly worried about that, in not wanting the Artist or the Bard or any of them to stay in this firey hell alone. But they’d reached an understanding, they’d reached acceptance.

And their forms both faded into a bright white light, for only a moment. Patton yelped, averting his eyes with Logan. Dimly, he thought about Steven Universe. 

The light became formless and, as though recognizing that they had separate jobs, faded back into two individuals. The Artist let down the Playwright, both starring at each other for a second in their original outfits, before the Artist gave him one last, tight squeeze and sprung back down the stairs. Hope. That’s what he’d felt, what they’d felt together. Hope. 

Roman could do this. 

First, though, he had to save the Imagination. The Bard had constructed a glowing shelter, a path towards the door made of awnings and covers, and had watched the almost-fusion. And he was laughing, clapping in awe and excitement. The Playwright gave him a thumbs up before turning to the other Sides again with gritted teeth and determination. 

“We need to go,” he hissed, taking Patton’s arm with one hand and Logan’s with the other, “Brace yourselves.”

Before either of them could ask what the heck just happened, what ‘brace yourself’ meant, or how they were going to escape, the ground beneath them opened like a trap door, and they all fell in. 


	24. heaven's light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: disassociation, wound description, panic (no panic attacks perse, but almost), unconsciousness, rain/storms, exhaustion — if there's anything else that i forgot, please let me know! this chapter is ! super fuckin fluffy! so ! 
> 
> im literally about to leave for class, but i reread this while in bed this morning and was like "wait this is super fuckin done" and i didn't wanna wait asdlkghagsldkfhglkj 
> 
> enjoy!! <3 <3 <3 <3
> 
> EDIT: i realize!!! this was super misleading!!!! the story itself isn't done (there're a good few chapters left) and i was just excited that the chapter was done :'D <3 <3 <3 sorry for the confusion and my own confusion about why folks were asking lksadhglksajdf i love y'all, thanks for keeping me honest

The first thing Virgil registered was the soft sound of rain pattering against the roof. The second was the warmth surrounding him, specifically of soft fabrics. The third was the pillow beneath his head, the fourth was the arm wrapped around his chest. The fifth was the tightness around his midsection.

The grounding exercise didn’t call for a sixth thing to register, but he had done it wrong anyway, so who was keeping track. There wasn’t any pain. And his head felt much clearer. 

He felt fairly well-rested actually, as though he’d spent a whole week healing rather than however the heck long he’d been laying here for. Oh, fuck, it hadn’t been a week had it? Virgil exhaled, deep and slow, and cracked open an eye. While that didn’t get him to start panicking, it certainly gave him a jolt of energy that helped wake him up. There was no way he was still in that little dungeon cell, right? And this arm holding him felt a lot larger than the Child’s.

His mind processed a few things at once, all of which succeeded in getting him to stop breathing. The fabrics surrounding him were his pajamas; he was in his regular hoodie, from prior to their redressing. There was an arm around his waist. They’d just escaped the castle and Patton had carried him and the Damsel was the Prince and they wanted to die. The arm around his waist was attached to Deceit’s body.

Virgil’s breathing returned, continuously slow and steady as he tried to figure out what situation had gotten him in bed with Deceit. Well, wait, now, that was a bad way to phrase it. More like what happened to get him resting against Deceit’s arm, pulled against Deceit’s chest by the snakey side himself, who was still very fast asleep. 

Seventh thing to register — the second set of arms. These were harder to feel, but as he shimmied to get a better view of Deceit’s face, he could clearly feel the weight of an arm wrapped around his waist, close to if not right above the bandage. Virgil turned his head over his shoulder just enough to see Patton’s face snuggled into the back of his neck, glasses off. 

Ah. Okay. Patton and Deceit. 

A small whimper slipped from his throat, confused and, honestly, scared. What the fuck was happening? Were they holding him down? Had he been moving in his sleep or something? Why were they holding him and why were they holding him down while he slept? Did it mean something? Any ulterior motives? 

Virgil shimmied not up, but down, lifting his arms carefully as he slipped between Patton’s and Deceit’s arms. He kept shimmying until he was near their legs, and then turned around, crawling and sliding around beneath the covers. 

Where the fuck was the end of the blanket? He kept crawling away, hoping either for the blanket’s edge, the footboard of the bed, or the bed’s ledge.

From beyond his cozy entrapments, Virgil heard someone whisper, “What in Odin’s beard?” 

Who was that? Was that Roman?!

He didn’t know, because he couldn’t get out of this stupid bed—

Think of the Devil. Virgil’s hand met empty air, and he yelped as he slid out from beneath the covers. Quickly, he scrambled away, standing upright and holding onto the bed’s side. 

He had no idea where he was. The room was a circle, with a pillar in the middle, while the room extended out around in a circle. The “walls” of the room were semi-translucent. It seemed they were in some sort of wooded fixture, with the walls being see-through, but textured and colored and distinct enough to resemble the exterior of a tree’s trunk. But they were really high up. Like, super high up. But also Virgil knew there were walls, and they weren’t going to fall. He could just see so far. The castle was relatively close compared to….was that a skyscraper? Beyond the mountains in the distance.

Along with that, the bed itself was huge, taking up maybe half the room and filled with stuffed animals, pillows, quilts, duvets, blankets of every variety. It was pushed against the wall away from the pillar. Inside the bed was also Logan, Patton, and Deceit, the later of the group having compensated for Virgil’s absence by scooting closer to one another. Logan wasn’t hugging anyone, but Patton’s other hand was reaching back and cupping Logan’s arm limply. 

Wow. They’d all just sorta been sleeping on top of each other.

“Virgil?” he turned around, back to the pillar. 

A Roman — Virgil wasn’t sure which one — was stood with half of his body inside the pillar. There must have been a cut out in the wood, perhaps it was a staircase.

Were they in the Thief’s tree? Virgil had never been in the upstairs part, but the stairs looked like they only went down, so it must be that.

But who was this? 

The Roman was holding a tray with six glasses of water, six teacups stacked atop each other, and a whole tea pot. He was also wearing some very nondescript Roman pajamas: an oversized t-shirt with the words  _ “It’ll do magic, believe it or not” _ printed elegantly on the front and a thick pair of red sweatpants covered in black ink stains. 

He starred at the Roman, and the Roman starred back. 

“You look healthier,” Roman murmured, breaking the silence. 

Virgil supposed he did. He felt healthier, too, despite his surprise. 

Roman set the tray down on a table beside the bed and scooted closer, sliding his socked feet along the wooden ground until he was right in front of Virgil. Then, he reached into his pants pocket, took out a pair of glasses, and slipped them on. 

Ah. Well, now he had a fifty-fifty chance. Virgil gulped as Roman inspected his face, then leaned down to inspect his bandage wrapping.

Eight. Eight things to notice. Virgil was wearing his hoodie and no other shirt. The tiny rational part of him argued that it was probably because that made it easier to get to his wound, but the overarching part was flipping that he WAS NOT WEARING A SHIRT. “I–Uh–Can I get a shirt?” he was quite off guard by that. 

“Of course,” Roman hummed, motioning for him to sit at the edge of the bed, “I need to change your gauze first and inspect the wound. It should be nearly fully healed, but if it is, then I can imagine that you’d want the bandage off.”

Virgil nodded as he sat on the edge of the bed. He wasn’t wrong about that, the bandage was kinda itchy if he thought about it. 

Roman smiled, then looked back down at the bandage, unwrapping it from Virgil’s torso. His hands were shaking a little but his touch was still deliberate and precise. Alright, so it was the Playwright. 

Okay, so it wasn’t fully Roman yet, but it was a non-hostile Roman. 

It was pretty upsetting there were potentially hostile Romans, yeah, but whatever. Whatever. 

Virgil kept both of his hands firmy on the bed, squeezing the blanket. There were a million questions he wanted to ask. But he couldn’t figure out which ones were most necessary.

“How do you feel?” the Playwright asked first.

Son of a Bitch. 

Virgil ran his hands through his hair, resting them on the back of his neck. “I think….I feel better. Like I slept for ages. Um. It doesn’t hurt at all. I guess I’m thirsty?”

The Playwright nodded, staying bent down. He balled up the bandages in his hand and set them aside on the table. Then he opened his hand, conjured a fresh wrapping, and began to smooth it against Virgil’s torso. “It’s definitely scabbing. I don’t have the ability to get rid of the wound in its entirety, so we will have to continue to mask the tender skin so it doesn’t get affected.”

That sounded right. Virgil patted the Playwright’s head awkwardly as he stood up.He gave Virgil an unreadable smile and gestured to the tray. “Tea?” he asked.

Virgil looked at the tea, then the Playwright’s outstretched hand. It was shaking. He’d made tea for everyone. 

Had he slept? Virgil didn’t want to overwhelm the Playwright right now, not if he was stressed, but he didn’t want him to be too worried either. He took one of the cups and nodded down the hall. Best not wake the others. 

“Wanna sit somewhere?” he asked, voice hushed, “What time’s it?”

“It’s fairly early in the morning. Maybe six?” the Playwright looked around at the others and rubbed the back of his neck. 

Truth be told, he did want to sleep. But….what if the others came home? And they were hurt? 

The Playwright winced as his chest clenched again. He didn’t like this feeling of caring about others. It tugged at his heartstrings, playing them like the Bard’s damned ukulele, while he waited worried for the others to waltz in with their own wounds. Because it was hardly plausible that they’d return unscathed. 

He should have been there to help. He should have shoved the Artist aside and joined because he didn’t want to be sidelined anymore, he couldn’t handle it, he HAD to help.

“Playwright?” Virgil’s voice was soft, grizzly even, “Do you wanna sleep instead?”

He shook his head and smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes, nor his eye bags. “No, I’m fine. There’s a sitting area on the other side of the stairs,” the Playwright picked up his own mug and shoved his thoughts to the back of his head.

With one hand, he gestured to the left, then started around the loop with Virgil behind. The bed was large, stretching for almost a whole quarter of the room, and there was a chaise lounge leant against the wall. Across from the lounge was a writing desk, papers stacked neatly to one side, pens organized in perfect lines. 

Something about how the Playwright brushed his hand against the desk told Virgil that the Thief hadn’t been the one to organize it. While Virgil examined the new area, the Playwright picked something off of the desk and leaned back onto the lounge. “Join me?” he offered, patting the spot beside himself.

Virgil slowly sat on the lounge, now looking out the clear wall. They could hear the soft drizzling of the rain outside, and the light filtered in from the tree’s bark was softened into a glow. 

You know, after this all finished, Virgil should ask Roman to hang out here more. If Roman could build this incredibly calming atmosphere, then Virgil wanted to see what else he could do. He was….impressed. Like, sure, he knew Roman was good at what he did. Despite his constant fear over their Youtube career teetering off, Roman consistently pulled through with engaging, charming, and nuanced ideas. But Virgil hadn’t expected him to create so much in his spare time, too, which mighta been an oversight on his part. If Virgil was anxious in his spare time, it made sense that Roman would also be creative in his spare time. 

Damn, why didn’t he ever ask? 

He looked over at the Playwright, who had curled up with a book. Oh, upon inspection, it wasn’t just any book. The cover glowed bright, golden lines denoting every part of Roman’s crest, sans the singular central tower, which was still a dull pressing. 

Did that mean everyone...wanted to come home? Roman was almost whole? 

But, oh, God, the Damsel. What if he never wanted to come back? Virgil rubbed his mouth, then sipped the tea, then set it down so he could run his hands through his hair and cup the back of his neck. What if they never got Roman back? They’d come so far, but there were still parts that didn’t believe, and he was still in PARTS. What if Roman never came back?

Focus. Focus on something else. Something else. 

He exhaled. Five things he could see. A writing desk. The Playwright. The Playwright’s fuzzy socks. The wooden floor. A painting on the wall, of nothing in particular, with circles and blues and greens. 

Four things he could feel. His jacket, which he then zipped up. The couch’s velvet. The Playwright’s hand. His pants. 

Three he could hear. The rain. His breathing. The Playwright’s pen in the book. 

Two he could smell. The tea, chamomile. The oak of the tree around them.

One he could taste. Chamomile. 

“I think I miss it.” 

Virgil turned to the Playwright, blinking slow. The Playwright looked up at him, smiled, then closed the book. “I miss Roman.” 

Ah. Virgil winced, then nodded, prior panic returning. “I….I do too. Will he ever come back?”

“Oh. Most definitely he will,” the Playwright ran his hand down the book’s spine, looking over the glowing cover, “These lights, they indicate how much every bit of him wants to return. It’s clearly a majority.”

“But, the Damsel, he doesn’t.”

“So we will convince him otherwise,” the Playwright scooted closer to Virgil, then leaned forward to look directly at his face.

His panic must have been evident, because the Playwright stood up and rested a hand on Virgil’s shoulder. “I know we can convince him, and it will be okay,” his voice was so sure and full of steady reassurance as he leaned closer, “May I give you a back rub?”

The Playwright squeezed his shoulder and, even through the jacket, could tell how tense Virgil was. 

Virgil blushed, ducking his head down when the Playwright squeezed his shoulder. Of course he was tense. Of course. “That’d be nice,” he mumbled.

He heard the Playwright hum a laugh softly, and felt him wrap his legs around Virgil’s shoulders, sitting on the lounge’s backrest. His hands were gentle on Virgil’s shoulders, moving his hood aside and gripping the muscle. “Drink some tea, Ro-emo, and let me take care of you. You’ve all been working so hard for us, after all, and I love getting to treat you.” 

So Virgil leaned back, taking the tea and cupping it with both hands in his lap as the Playwright rubbed his shoulders. 

It wasn’t like he could just stop panicking. It was part of his job description, after all. But with the Playwright’s gentle hands, the soothing tea, the melodic sound of the rain….Virgil was definitely getting somewhere close to “calm.”

_ “I know you~ _ ” Virgil closed his eyes and leaned his head against the Playwright’s leg as he began to sing, a lovely melodic hum as graceful as Roman always was,  _ “I walked with you once upon a dream~ _ ”

Holy FUCK was he gay.

_ “I know you~” _

Roman’s voice was so relaxing. Virgil could just get lost in it.

_ “The gleam in your eyes so familiar a gleam~” _

He must have been somewhere partially asleep, because Virgil was feeling how he imagined the word “warm” felt.

And he’d never been that relaxed before in his entire existence. 

_ “Yet I know it’s true~” _

He never wanted this to end. 

He wanted this forever and ever, this dream. 

“ _ That visions are seldom what they seem~” _

“I love you.”

Virgil slapped a hand over his own mouth, eyes snapping open. Oh. Oh, fuck, oh fuck. It’d just slipped out. He hadn’t meant to say that. He’d MEANT it, sure, but—and he KNEW Patton said they were all—BUT THAT DIDN’T MEAN—

“Virgil,” the Playwright’s voice was so flat, he didn’t care, he didn’t even care, even though his tone hadn’t changed, “Virgil, darling, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

He felt the Playwright slide down behind him, wiggling to fit into the space between his back and the lounge, and then tugged Virgil’s shoulder gently. What did he mean it was okay? What the fuck did that MEAN? WHAT was okay? Did that mean he didn’t feel the same? Did he not care? It was so flippant, wasn’t it?

“Virgil.” 

The Playwright scooted to one side and turned Virgil around to face him. His expression was soft, eyebrows pinched ever so slightly, lips quirking upwards in a smile. Did he pity him? Was that it? He just felt bad?

“May I kiss you?”

…...Oh? Worm? 

Virgil opened his mouth but couldn’t find the chords of his voice to respond. Damnit. It was an emphatic yes, of course he could, thank you for asking! But he just couldn’t find the connection between his brain and his elation and the fast evaporation of worries with the compounded worries of ‘Am I Even A Good Kisser?’

It took him a few seconds to realize that he could nod. Once he realized that, he nodded rapidly, and the Playwright took the invitation immediately. 

He cupped his hand on Virgil’s cheek and pulled him close, closing his eyes as their lips pressed together. Virgil didn’t close his eyes, though, and noted that the Playwright turned red. Not like blushing red, but that his body went a a translucent sort of glow-y red, the kind that you’d expect from a hologram, not a physical metaphysical being.

What, and Virgil couldn’t stress this enough, the fuck.

Don’t think too hard about that. Please, for the love of God, savor the moment. The Playwright ran his hand through Virgil’s hair, and Virgil reached out, holding the Playwright’s shoulder. He tasted like raspberries, blackberries, and a little like red wine. 

“You’re awake!” Patton said. 

Oh, fuck. 

Virgil immediately pulled back, face bright red, as though he’d been caught doing something dastardly. He pulled the hood of his hoodie up and scrambled back against the corner of the lounge. 

Instead of letting him phase into the nothingness of plush couch, however, the Playwright grabbed his arm and held him tight. “Indeed. Virgil’s keeping me company while I await the others,” his voice was smooth, chipper enough. “He’s healed a fair amount, too.”

Virgil didn’t know how to react. Maybe Patton was telling the truth. But all five of them? Would that work? 

He was tugged forward gently into another pair of arms, above him, which held him against a warm body. 

“I love you, kiddo,” Patton’s voice was soft as a sigh above him. “Are you feelin’ okay?”

Patton pressed a kiss into Virgil’s hair and then ran his hand down his shoulder, rubbing as comfortingly as he could. He shared a smile with the Playwright, who leaned over and wrapped his arm around Virgil’s shoulders, as Virgil nodded silently. He did feel a little better, albeit confused. 

“I love you as well, Edgar Allan Woe,” the Playwright rested his cheek against Virgil’s shoulder and inhaled slowly, easing into the contact. 

It was getting easier, to hold them.

Patton reached over and ran his hand also through the Playwright’s hair. He giggled when the Playwright opened one eye to smile up at him, then sat down between them with one arm wrapped around either. Virgil, still at a loss of what to say or how to react or even how to feel, let himself be moved by the ones he trusted. 

That was fine, though. The sound of the rain was enough, and the sound of their heartbeats, and the knowledge that more of their love was just around the bend. 

It was all….so much. His vision was blurred despite the glasses, and he felt himself slip, ever so slightly, into an unconscious consciousness. It was like zoning out, but he was still functioning, still moving. Drowned in the best lovely feeling. 

Patton sniffed, then kissed Virgil’s head. “I’m so happy I get to say that now. I love you both so much.”

The Playwright gave a soft laugh, snuggling even closer. “We can discuss the parameters and details of this relationship once Roman is back,” his voice was muffled against Patton’s chest, “But….I agree. I love you both dearly.”

Virgil couldn’t disagree. He guessed this was love. This sticky, oozing warmth he felt. He knew what it felt like when it was in his heart, locked up behind seven proxies. 

He laughed. 

This was what reciprocation was like. Alright. Virgil wrapped his arm around Patton’s waist and leaned in to the both of them, a movement that they both seemed to mimic. 

He didn’t need to say the words for Patton and the Playwright to know he meant them. 

The Playwright waved his hand, and a blanket appeared, gently resting against their laps. He tugged it up, and Patton leaned across on the lounge, and Virgil and the Playwright wrapped around him. They all worked the blanket around themselves and, under the soft morning light and drum of the rain, pressed together. 

It was a lovely entanglement. 

“I cannot wait to go home,” the Playwright breathed. 

Patton felt his breath against his neck, his head rested in the crook of Patton’s shoulder. He ran his hand up and clutched the Playwright’s back. 

“Like, back to the Mindscape?” Virgil asked. 

The Playwright nodded. He took his glasses off and set them on the ground before burrowing even closer to Patton. “I want to be Roman again. Be with all of you.”

“Mm,” Patton rubbed his back gently. 

They’d all talked….a little about wants. That seemed to be a big thing. 

Patton thought about the beginning. How they’d seemed so sure of the Playwright’s intentions, how they’d trusted him. He’d been crushed when he found out that the Playwright was likely lying. That’d made him pretty pessimistic, to be honest, and Patton wasn’t usually such a negative Nancy! So he’d thought a little bit about what they’d all wanted, because he wanted to give his loved ones what they wanted, and, well….

He couldn’t figure out the Playwright. 

“Say, Playwright,” he rested his chin on Patton’s chest, looking up at him with sleepy eyes, “Everyone wanted something different for Roman, right?” the Playwright nodded, “What’d you want?”

If the question bothered him, he didn’t reveal. He turned his head back down, opting to stare at Virgil, who was also watching him closely. The Playwright definitely knew what he wanted. It was just a difficult position for even him to articulate.

After a pregnant pause, the Playwright sighed. “I wanted to make sense,” he said, voice soft, tinged with bitterness. “Creating, especially the raw ideas, is difficult. Every first draft we create is a disaster of words and concepts jumbled into a barely coherent thought, and then we comb through every draft meticulously before it is even looked at by another set of eyes. It never makes sense.” 

Virgil nodded. That made sense. “That’s why you like order,” he asked, leaning a little closer.

The Playwright closed his eyes slowly and nodded back. “Mhm,” he leaned in, too, though a bit further. His head rested against Virgil’s, foreheads touching against Patton’s chest. “It’s so much easier to be understood when you don’t have to parse through the cacophony. If I could just get rid of it, then we’d be peachy keen.”

“Sometimes the fluff’s good, though,” they could hear the rumble of Patton’s voice through his chest as he spoke, “A lot of great takes are impromptu.”

The Playwright was about to make a joke about how they knew that already, how Logan had brought it up during that debate once upon a time, but Virgil beat him to a punchline.

“‘Oh my god, I will kill both of you with my bare hands. And this sword,’” he whispered, attempting to mimic Roman’s speech patterns to the best of his abilities.

It definitely worked, but with Virgil’s deeper voice, it sounded fairly off base. 

The Playwright and Patton both laughed, and Virgil smiled at the sound. Success. No more weird sad tension. 

“I love you, Mad Eye Gloomy,” the Playwright joked, pressing a quick kiss to Virgil’s cheek. 

Just before there was a knock on the door. It reverberated throughout the tree and, looking back, Virgil and Patton were surprised it didn’t immediately wake Logan and Deceit. 

The Playwright was up immediately, tucking the blanket back over the other two before racing down the stairs. Tucking in the blanket, however, was a futile effort; of course Virgil and Patton would follow. 

The stairs were descended in only a few seconds. Virgil couldn’t remember if the Thief had mentioned that they were charmed or not, because they definitely didn't go down enough steps compared to the trees height, but he was thankful that they got to the door so fast. Patton hopped down the foyer stairs first and stopped at the bottom, holding an arm out to stop Virgil. 

The Playwright was helping an exhausted-looking and absolutely filthy Bard in carrying the Artist, holding him bridal style while the Bard stretched his back. He leaned back in the rain, letting the water wash over his face as he rubbed it, and looked back at the tree with a weary expression that quickly turned into a tired smile. 

“This Roman is home, man,” he shot the pair finger guns, and was met with a few small snickers from Patton from the attempted rhyme. 

Patton and Virgil were honestly too worried to be paying attention to the pun, and in Patton’s defense, it was a pretty bad pun. He hurried out to the Playwright, but he just held the Artist tighter. So then he turned to the Bard. 

“Hey, kiddo, how’re you feeling?” Patton asked, gently reaching for his hands. 

The Bard took them without hesitation, giving him a tight squeeze and then using them to pull all of Patton in for a tight hug. 

“Tired,” he murmured into Patton’s shoulder, “Missed you. Feels like we won.”

“Won what?” Virgil asked, tugging the hugging duo into the tree. 

The Bard pulled back and ran his hands through his hair, flicking and shaking away as much of the water as he could. Then, he rested one hand on Patton’s shoulder, one hand on Virgil’s shoulder, and broke out into a wide smile. 

“I think Roman’s coming home soon.”


	25. when you wish upon a star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: wound description, wounds, pain, scars, disassociation, unconsciousness <\-- i think that's it, but please let me know if there's anything else!!!
> 
> *vibrates at the speed of sound* i'm home now and i finally get to post this aaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
> 
> hope y'all enjoy!! <3 <3 <3

“You can’t hide from me for forever. I should have killed you at the beginning.”

“This is ridiculous, Princey! We’ve gotta go home!”

“SHUT UP! What do you know about what needs to be done?! About responsibility? You’re just a Child!”

“I know more than you!”

“Of course you don’t! Look at you! You’re nothing. You’re weak. We’re all weak, don’t you see it?! You’re all so worried about what’s best for ROMAN that you forget that he’s not even the most important member of the round table!”

“And WHO is that?”

* * *

 

Deceit was very warm. Usually that would wake him up, since he typically slept in colder temperatures, but it was a drowsy sort of warmth that wrapped around him. It settled on top of his sternum and sat like a cat waiting for attention.

Wait. Wait, no, there was actually something resting on his chest. Did Remus leave his morning star on him or something? Without opening his eyes just yet, Deceit reached up and rubbed his face slowly, blinking the exhaustion out of his brain. 

No, it wasn’t a weapon of any sort. That was hair. Tousled brown hair, resting on his chest. Who the hell was that? 

It slowly came back to him, while he starred at the head. They were in the Imagination still (that was bad) and Roman was dismembered emotionally (also bad) but they had gotten 6/7 Romans support (that was objectively good) but the most villainous one was the most difficult Roman to handle (that was objectively bad). He had also kissed Roman on the cheek (very, very good) and they’d all discussed loving each other (also good). Sort of discussed. They all confessed a somewhat hidden secret. Hidden from themselves or from each other, he wasn’t certain of the precise break down, but that was out in the open now. 

Thinking about it was making his throat tight, yet he smiled at the thought of this warmth, this love. Revolting love. Deceit reached down and rested a hand on the person’s head. He couldn’t see their face, but the muscularity in the person’s arms as they tightened around Deceit’s midsection suggested that it was one of the Romans. 

Deceit looked around. They were in a fairly large bed, tucked in and surrounded by pillows. There was another person, likely another Roman, being held by the one that was on Deceit’s chest. On his other side was….

A very awake Virgil, who was watching Deceit silently while laying down. Immediately, Deceit’s grin dropped away as he pressed his lips into a more guarded expression. Virgil.

Wait. Virgil was safe. He wasn’t locked up anymore?

He reached out with his other hand and brushed Virgil’s bangs back. Instead of flinching, which was what Deceit had expected, Virgil stayed stock still. 

How much did he know?

“What happened?” Deceit whispered, resting his hand on the top of Virgil’s head. 

Virgil didn’t lean into it, but he didn’t lean away. They were watching each other like a stare-off, waiting for the other to crack into submission. But that wasn’t going to happen. They were both too stubborn.

“Well,” Virgil’s voice rumbled, adding to the soft drizzle of rain like a rolling thunder, “I’m alive.”

“Totally couldn’t tell,” Virgil chuckled at that, and Deceit grinned a little more, feeling the tension subdue by an inch, “Who’s this?”

With his other hand, he rubbed the Roman’s back. Virgil leaned down, checked, and said, “Artist. The other one’s Playwright.”

“Huh,” Deceit looked back down at the Artist. 

He couldn’t necessarily see his face, nor could he see the Playwright’s, but the way that they were snuggled against him, completely trusting him, was surprising. At their most vulnerable, too. 

That must have been why Virgil was here. To make sure Deceit wouldn’t hurt them. Yes, that must be it. 

Why was Deceit asleep again, though? He didn’t remember falling asleep. All he could remember was the pain from his chest and throat constructing, air escaping his lungs as he tried to keep important truths safe from prying eyes.

Ah. You know, it was probably that.

“How do you feel?” Virgil asked. 

Deceit looked up at him with a squint. Excuse me? Virgil was asking how he was? Was this a trick question or something, since when did Virgil care? He was probably asking to be polite.

“I’m not dying,” Deceit raised an eyebrow at him, as it technically wasn’t a lie but it also wasn’t exactly the truth, then tilted his head forward, “How are you?”

Virgil shrugged. He was physically fine. As soon as the Bard arrived, he charmed Virgil’s wound into nothing more than a scar, and promptly took a shower. Virgil corralled the Playwright into finally sleeping, and then he’d just wanted to rest. With Deceit. Which was a weird feeling in and of itself. He hadn’t wanted that in a long while.

It was almost nostalgic. The feeling of getting lost in petty comforts and white lies and being wrapped in Deceit’s arms, protecting the protector like they both used to do. 

God, Virgil missed that. He didn’t miss the things that would hurt Thomas, that were less than heroic, the things that hurt everyone, but he did miss the good parts. Like Deceit. Who also didn’t necessarily want to hurt Thomas. None of them really wanted to hurt him, but sometimes the things that had to be done hurt. 

“Virgil?” he’d been silent for too long. Son of a bitch. 

“I’m okay,” Virgil looked at Deceit’s hand, then back at his eyes, “I got stabbed a little, but Bard healed that up.”

You know what? Deceit wasn’t even going to ASK about the stabbing. He was already certain that he’d failed Virgil, and knowing more details about how Virgil had been hurt by the Prince in his captivity was a surefire way to rile him out of this soft tenderness. Not that he didn’t want to leave, but, well…. 

Okay, so he didn’t want to not be in a good mood, so sue him. Deceit’s brow must have pinched together in something like worry, though, because Virgil waved his fingers to ease his concerns. “Bard also said it’ll probably disappear once we get out of the Imagination. Things are less permanent here, ‘parently.”

Apparently indeed. Deceit nodded, worries subdued slightly (not at all, but sure, he’d tell himself he wasn’t worried) and turned his head to face the ceiling. 

He was still so exhausted. Metaphorically, he almost felt naked. Like his heart was on his sleeve. Not the best case for him to be having an emotional moment, but, well, what could he do? He wondered briefly why he felt this way, but then dashed that train of thought. He didn’t want to know, either.

“What’s Artist doing here?” he murmured, trying to distract himself from the barrenness. 

Virgil could understand his exhaustion. Neither of them were accustomed to the permissible ease that seemed to hang around at the current time, so after a period of high-stress, getting to rest like this was a gift.

He’d been thinking of how to broach the whole ‘Hey! We used to be friends, really close friends, but we had a falling out, but actually I’ve been in love with you ever since we were friends, and the feelings have not gone away! Do you want to be in love and also date me and the other three?’ topic, but as per norm, Virgil was having a bit of trouble getting over his inhibitions. He exhaled, fingers pinching the thick quilt as he answered the question.

“Bard brought him back unconscious. Said he overworked himself trying to fix the castle after Remus burnt it down,” Virgil was so focused on Deceit’s face, how every scale glittered in the soft daylight, how his lips seemed soft, he hadn’t seen him so up close in a long while. He was taking in every detail like his visage were a drink, and Virgil was a man lost in the desert. 

Oh my goodness gracious, was his snake eye’s pupil always that large? Virgil could barely see the yellow iris surrounding it. 

Wasn’t that, like, something that happened when animals with slitted eyes saw something they liked?

Woah, back peddle there, and don’t go forward. You’ll say some dumb shit you don’t mean. 

“Hm. I don’t know what holding Remus back is like at all,” Deceit ran his hand through the Artist’s hair again, smirking at his calmed countenance, “Someone seemed to have washed him? His hair’s soft.”

“Mhm. Bard did before taking a shower. He’s been holding down the tree since they got back, says he can handle it,” Virgil was next to certain that the Bard couldn’t handle it, that he was just as burnt out as the rest of them, but he’d been really serious about holding it together.  

Come to think of it, the Bard barely even smiled once he got back. Wasn’t he supposed to be more carefree? Okay, now Virgil was worried. 

Deceit’s hand brushed through Virgil’s hair again. This time, Virgil let himself lean into it. 

He’d missed this, missed his best friend and this weird undefinable intimacy. As much as they wanted to hate it, Deceit did love Virgil, and Virgil did trust Deceit. 

A dull sting pinched at Deceit’s throat, and he covered his mouth to cough. He should tell Virgil; it would hurt; he wanted to say it; he doesn’t love you back. It wasn’t like the others. He didn’t want to hurt Virgil. He had LET Virgil get hurt. He got STABBED.

Deceit closed his eyes, scowling to himself.

“Are you alright?” Virgil frowned at him, scooting closer again. 

He couldn’t let Virgil know, that’d be the death of him. Deceit cleared his throat and nodded. “I’m fine,” he hissed out.

“Bullshit, snake,” Deceit tried to not flinch as Virgil moved even closer, resting a hand on his shoulder, “Look at me.”

He opened one eye, turning ever so slightly towards Virgil. He looked worried, but Virgil was always worried, and this wasn’t anything new. So what, Virgil knew he was lying. It was him who should be stressing over Virgil, he’d been the one to get wounded, to be captured. 

Yet, here Virgil was, stressing over both Deceit and what their relationship was to become.

Ah, fuck it. Ask, quickly. Like a band-aid.

“Are we doing this sappy love thing?” Virgil’s voice was barely a whisper, “‘Cause it sounded like it was an all-parties sorta party.”

Deceit raised an eyebrow, and looked back up at the ceiling. “It seems so. Patton’s very happy about it,” his grip on the Artist tightened, nervous about whatever would happen once they returned to the Mind Palace.

Sure, they all said they loved each other, going in for kisses and such, but Patton and Roman were always the optimistic pair. What surprised Deceit was how well Logan was leaning into this whole thing. 

He could remember how it felt to have Logan deadlift him at the ball, just as he was fading into full unconsciousness. Deceit hadn’t expected him to be so gentle. 

“Are you happy about it?” 

Deceit hummed. The truth was a resounding yes, but he didn’t want to hurt them. He also didn’t want to be hurt by them. That was all he foresaw. Pain. 

But he did….want it. Wasn’t that quaint? He wanted it regardless of how bad he knew the inevitable rejection would be. Sure, sure they said they’d love him, that they’d come to care for him, that they wanted him to live in the Mind Palace. But what would happen a few days in? Once the novelty of it wore off? 

Once they all stopped feeling bad about excluding him and remembered why they did it in the first place? He wasn’t a moral side, wasn’t tied down to any specific positive necessity of Thomas. In fact, his whole purpose was to be just out of Thomas’ vision, to hold back the parts he didn’t want to face just yet. 

“Deceit,” Virgil gently tilted Deceit’s head up toward his own with his knuckle, until their eyes met, “I need an answer.”

Of course. Virgil wasn’t a fan of non-answers. 

But — and he felt his throat clench a little at the thought of verbalizing it — he really was happy. How could he admit his illogical desire to love and be loved?

‘Illogical.’ Hilarious. 

“No,” Deceit hummed, feeling his shoulders loosen with the lie, “No, I’m not.”

Virgil watched him for a few more seconds, then let go of his head. That was likely a lie, but he had to coax some more information out of him to be sure.

“Why’d you pass out?” he asked.

Ah. Okay, now how was he going to weasel his way out of this one?

“Patton said,” Damn Patton and his honest nature, “That you tried to come get me. Before the whole ball thing. Why?”

An even harder question. Before he could consider his words, Deceit heard himself say, “It’s my job.”

It stung in the back of his mouth.

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “Oh, is it? What exactly’s that job?” 

Deceit sighed, looking away. “I,” he tilted his head, starring unfocused at Virgil’s nose as he wondered if it was worth explaining when Virgil probably wouldn’t even believe him, “Protect you. I’m supposed to protect you. And I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t save you.”

Virgil sighed. 

No wonder Deceit was being so finicky. If Patton’d been right, and Deceit had been too honest and had also been super worried about him, then of course he’d been freaked when he woke up with Virgil right there. They’d decided on a truce but that didn’t mean much in the grand scheme of Virgil almost dying.

He didn’t really think that that’d have as much of a profound impact on Deceit as it did, but, well, it seemed like it did. 

Maybe Deceit did love him back. Huh.

“That’s not your job,” the snake side rolled his head to look the other way, still idly combing his hand through the Artist’s hair as he avoided Virgil’s gaze, “Deceit. C’mon.”

“That is what I do. You know this,” Deceit inspected his — oh, dear, his gloves were off. He squinted at his hands, examining the scales that rode slightly on the back of his left hand and the barely-harder-than-average nails he’d sharpened to a point. “You may be diligent in protecting Thomas from the world, I’m supposed to protect you all. From yourselves and from Thomas, and then protect Thomas from you. I….”

His voice cracked, and he didn’t know if it was from the pain or from the tears clogging his eyes. His hand closed into a fist. “I’ve always been there to protect you,” I failed, I failed, I failed, I failed, “I wasn’t there this time. I’m sorry.”

He’d failed.

There was silence, for a while, and Deceit figured Virgil understood what he was saying. He had fucked up. Deceit hadn’t done his job, and Virgil had been wounded, and it didn’t fucking matter that there was some weird Imagination magic that meant he’d be okay. He was hurt. And Deceit had let it happen. He’d let one of his darlings get hurt, and it was VIRGIL of all fucking people.

A hand on his shoulder, just barely brushing his neck, caught his attention.

“You did the smart thing, Deceit,” Virgil’s voice was a careful whisper in his ear, “You waited, you came with help, and I’m okay now.”

“But—”

“Shush. I’m safe, and I’m here laying with you. And I, for one,” Virgil took a deep breath and continued, slower, voice quivering only slightly in fear. “Am happy about the whole love thing. Because I care about you a lot. We’re gonna be okay. Okay?”

Deceit turned his head back around on the pillow to look at Virgil. 

What was going to happen, when they were over and through with loving him? What would happen when Deceit was recognized, once again, to be nothing but a villain? 

He wished he was telepathetic or something, so he could transmit these worries to Virgil, for some kind of answer. He didn’t have the strength to voice any of them. But maybe he did have a power of that sort, because Virgil leaned closer, pressed his lips to Deceit’s head, and whispered softly, “Okay?”

And who was Deceit to deny him an answer anymore. “Okay. Fine.”

Virgil smirked. He closed the gap between them fully, wrapping an arm around Deceit’s shoulders and pulling him against his chest. “Alright,” his voice was barely above a whisper, “Now stop telling the truth so much, or I’m gonna slap you.”

Deceit stifled a laugh into Virgil’s chest, burrowing his face against his soft cotton shirt. It was nice to have this again, this weird sort of mutual protection. This maybe sort of L-word. He closed his eyes and let Virgil card his hand through his hair, relishing in the intimate touch. 

Once again, it felt weird to be so drowsy in the warmth, but that must have been the human parts of him trying to get back to the coziness. And there wasn’t much reason to not give in to those desires, either. “You wouldn’t sssslap me,” Deceit sighed and relaxed the tension in his shoulders, “You’re too sssssoft.”

Virgil snorted. Deceit was sort of right on that one; he had definitely gone soft.

You could blame the others for that, though. Hanging around people who he wanted to protect, who showed him so much affection and care and love, that definitely softened him like butter. But Virgil wouldn’t have it any other way. It just gave him more things to fight for. 

“That’s a lie if I’ve ever seen one, you know I’d smack you,” he said, lightly patting the top of Deceit’s head, “Sleep, snake.”

“Shhhut up,” Deceit’s breath was warm against his collar, lips loosened as the pain dulled to a throb in his throad. “And….for the record. I don’t love you.”

Virgil felt himself blush just a tiny bit more, now certain of the blatant lie. He pulled the Playwright closer to them all, as the Artist had been scooting himself toward Deceit and Virgil in his sleep, and rested his arm across all of their shoulders. And then he let himself rest as well, chin sitting atop Deceit’s head — not too worried, for once. 

Speaking of worries, at the other end of the tree trunk staircase, Patton was fairly worried. The Bard had been in the bathroom for nearly two hours, and the shower had stopped over an hour ago.

Patton stole another worried look at Logan, who was parsing through the absolute novel that the Playwright had written as they sat idly. The two conscious Romans had assured them that there wasn’t anything to be done, that going into the fray would be detrimental, but they hadn’t explained why. Patton thought it had something to do with Roman coming back together. It had to, right? There were definitely internal problems he had to work out with himself. 

He still wanted to be helpful, though. He didn’t like sitting by and doing nothing while his kiddo was out there fighting against himself! So he was making soup to pass the time. They were all going to come home hungry, right?

Logan snapped the book shut, causing Patton to jump, setting the spoon he was using to cook down. Neither of them were taking this lull in activity well. 

“We should go outside,” Logan said, “There has to something we can contribute.”

They’d had this conversation thrice before. Patton shook his head. “If Roman wants us to stay here, then there’s gotta be a reason for it,” he tapped his spoon on the side of the bowl.

“Yes, but inactivity is what led to Roman’s self-imposed exile into his bedroom in the first place. I cannot stand aside again,” Logan stood up, setting the book down on the coffee table as he did so. 

Instead of going for the door, however, he simply began to pace. Patton loosened the tension in his shoulders (when had they grown?) and looked back down at the soup.

….It did feel like shit, to not do anything. To not be able to do anything. 

“Where is Bard?” Patton looked up at Logan’s sharp look, “He should rest. If anything, they will all need to regain their strength and, now that we are awake and prepared, we can meet with anyone else who returns with wounds.”

Wounds. 

Hurt. They were going to come home hurt. He felt sad.

Patton gripped the counter tighter as the world spun harshly around him. Hold it in, Patty, c’mon. 

Taking a sleep had definitely helped all of them even out the Imagination’s affects. Logan was, in fact, so productive that the headache had all but alleviated. You could tell by how the trees outside were all distinctly redwood trees, with the Thief’s being a Giant Sequoia. You could tell by how the storm’s lightning strikes were now approximately six miles away, through counting the seconds between the visual lighting and hearing the thunder clap. Things made more sense from a rational point of view; Logan was more at peace for it. 

Patton was definitely doing better than he was yesterday. He could process his own emotions, that was a big step forward, and he was a lot more grounded in what was happening around himself. Logan said he was probably feeling something akin to “disassociation,” what with all the zoning out and the feeling like he wasn’t himself and all that. That’d gone away mostly, too. Now it was simply manifesting as a dizziness every so often. So he was trying to not get too worked up. 

Hence. Soup. 

Two hands held his sides, and Patton’s head bumped Logan’s as he turned. “Oop,” he giggled and wrapped his free arm around Logan’s waist, “Thanks, Logi Bear.”

Logan sighed, though a small smile played on his lips. It fell in an instant, what with Logan still worrying about Roman and now worrying more about Patton. “You should sit, Patton,” he stated, hands still firm on Patton’s waist, as though to keep him stable, “The soup seems done.”

It was done. Patton’d just sorta been idly stirring it, for lack of anything else to do. “I know, I know, I just….” he stood straighter and smiled, an idea popping into his head. “I’ll check on Bard! He’s probably real tired, and that’s something we can do without going outside!”

That was true. The Bard’s prolonged shower was disconcerting at best, and while he didn’t enjoy being disturbed during his routines, it’d been proven earlier that interrupting Roman’s cycles was beneficial to maintaining completely honest communication pathways. In other words, it was best to check on him, especially when they suspected he was hurt.

Logan nodded. “Understandable. May I come?”

Patton grinned, and looped his arm through Logan’s as his hands finally released Patton’s waist. “Of course!” he said, turning towards the hallway of bedrooms. 

The hall looped around the trunk, featuring a large bathroom and innumerable bedrooms. The Bard had used the downstairs bathroom, citing that the others may want to use the upstairs one at some point. As Logan and Patton got closer, they heard no sounds of running water, no movement even. 

An honest mistake was to assume that the Bard had fallen asleep at some point during the bathing process. He’d nearly collapsed into Patton’s arms earlier, and again while he and the Playwright cleaned up the Artist.

He said he’d rest after his shower. But the water wasn’t running anymore. 

What ELSE could he have been doing?

“Hey, kiddo?” Patton knocked on the door and leaned his ear against it, “Are you okay in there?”

The sound of shuffling. Patton and Logan shared a look as they heard something being put down on the tile countertop. It seemed he wasn’t asleep at all. 

“I’m fine!” the Bard’s airy voice was wavering, almost too light, “I’ll be out in a bit!”

“Bard, it has been two hours and nine minutes,” Logan rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, then back down to Patton, “And you sound lightheaded. May we come in?”

“No! No, I’m—” the clatter of something falling, a hissed swear word coming from usually-singing lips.

He didn’t sound very fine. Patton winced, and turned the knob. “Bard?” he asked, entering the room. 

The Bard was on his knees, holding a fairly large red bag with an embroidered “R” on the front, picking up trinkets from the ground. He was frozen, starring up at them and holding a handful of plastic containers as though caught with his hand in a figurative cookie jar. Upon closer inspection, the trinkets were tubes, flat palettes, a few brushes. It was a make-up bag. But why was the Bard doing make-up at this time?

It was perhaps something to do with the scar across his cheek, clear as day and mapping perfectly onto the scar that they’d seen across the Thief and Damsel’s cheeks. Around his eye, too, was a light purple hue. He’d only gotten part way through covering up the black eye. Patton didn’t pay that much mind, though, because the Bard was looking at them like a deer about to be hit by a car, hand shaking harder than before as he clutched the make-up like stolen jewelry. 

“I’m sorry, we musta scared you,” Patton picked up some of the make-up pieces and held them out, “Can I help clean up?”

The Bard’s slightly open mouth snapped shut, but he nodded, opening the bag up more. Patton dropped them in, and Logan leaned in, all of them organizing and tucking away the make-up. The entire while, the Bard kept glancing at them, confused, almost worried. 

Logan was curious about the why. He seemed to be able to conjure things well earlier — Patton and Deceit both said his black eye had all but disappeared earlier — so what was the purpose of manually applying make-up?

Neither of them reacted negatively, so the Bard just cleared his throat and apologized. “I’m sorry for the mess. I was just patching myself up.”

“It’s a-okay,” Patton chirped, waving his hand, “I just….”

Logan picked up the confused and worried sentiment. “We didn’t know you wore make-up,” he took the bag and carefully began arranging the palettes inside the largest pouch.

The Bard watched as he did so, lip bitten. How was he supposed to explain? Poor Logan, things had just started to make sense! 

“Yeah,” he paused, humming in thought before elaborating, “Conjuring takes more effort. I can do it, but it’s...I don’t know. Playwright and Artist are a lot more original, they can conjure things easier, but I can only do covers, you know,” the Bard cleared his throat, then gestured to his face, and the semi-visible scars that peppered his body — he’d been covering them all. “I don’t want anyone….I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Patton and Logan shared another look, before Patton leaned in and put a hand on the Bard’s shoulder. Another version of perfectionism, it seemed.

“Why not? There’s no shame in it,” the Bard bobbed his head, and Patton squeezed his shoulder, a smile growing on his lips as he proclaimed, “You are as beautiful as you always have been.”

“That’s fair, I guess,” the Bard looked down at his hands, already covered in nail polish and foundation, sealed to perfection. It was the first part of his body he did, usually. “I just feel like I look broken. Scars, they’re usually villainous, or they mean you’ve lost the fight. And I haven’t lost just yet. I’m gonna be perfect.”

Logan and Patton shared a look as the Bard exhaled, slumping into himself while he sat on the ground. “Or at least I’ve gotta try to be.”

It was clear that the Bard was another actor. Most of them must be, considering Roman’s self-identification as an actor before anything else. 

No more acting, though. He was just as quiet and nuanced as the rest of them.

They all had a deep perfectionism problem, Logan thought, that ran deeper than any of them had expected.  No matter. It was something they could continually address and assist Roman in overcoming.

“No one is perfect, dear, you know this,” Logan stood to his left, resting his hand on the Bard’s other shoulder, “And striving for perfection means you will always fall short, because perfection is an unachievable dream.”

Patton nodded in agreement. “You’re wonderful just the way you are. Wonderful, fun-der-ful, and beautiful.”

“Thanks,” the Bard exhaled, then scratched the back of his head, “I love you.”

Logan smiled. He was….getting more used to that word.

“I love you, too,” he squeezed the Bard’s shoulder and motioned them all to stand up. “Can I ask why it was taking so long?”

The Bard chuckled quietly at that. It usually didn’t take him this long anyway, might as well come clean. He lifted his hand, flattening his palm in the air as much as he could. 

His hand shook like a book page rattling in a heavy wind. “Can’t hold steady. I think I’m exhausted.”

“May we help you to sleep?” Logan suggested. That seemed like the logical next step.

“I’d like to finish this. My sealer’s magic, stops anything from coming off. I usually sleep in it, but it always disappears in the morning,” the Bard twirled the bottle around his finger and set it on the counter, “It shouldn’t take very long. Just a bit of time.”

“Another hour?” Patton asked, voice quieter, but still teasing.

The Bard bit his tongue, and smiled regardless. “Maybe?” the Bard’s tone was apologetic.

Patton smiled, but his brows betrayed his worry. There wasn’t else to do, and if it meant so much to him, then why not help. He sighed, waving to the toilet as though he were relenting in an argument. “Sit down, kiddo, I’ll do your make-up! Your Pops knows a thing or two about making faces pop!”

The Bard blinked in surprise. Slowly, he sat on top of the toilet, watching Patton with wide eyes. “You? Know how to do make-up?” 

Patton shrugged, still smiling. He cast a smile up at Logan, too, who was equally as confused. Make-up seemed much more in Roman’s wheelhouse than Patton’s. “Yeah, well,” he started explaining himself, then shrugged, “I liked it. That’s all there was to it.”

Understandable. 

“Thanks, Patton.”

“Well, it’s my pleasure, Roman,” the Bard chuckled, then sat as still as his shaking body would allow while Patton rubbed on some foundation around his brow. He continued to talk, voice light and soothing. “I just want you to know, though, that it’s not just how you look that makes you beautiful. You don’t have to look different on the outside t all for us to love you for what’s inside.”

Logan watched the Bard smile just a little more, mouth pinching into a stifled smile. It was clear that he knew, but it also was a statement that must be reminded every so often.

“....Thank you,” he said, voice low.

Patton kissed his head, and continued on his eyes. With the skin complete (only a basic foundation layer, some blush, minimal contouring), he applied a light amount of eyeliner and called that an eye. After all, it wasn’t like he had to be movie perfect. The Bard would ask for the mirror every so often, to check that he looked okay. And every time, Patton would kiss his head

Once, Patton leaned in and kissed his lips, and the Bard giggled into his mouth. He still shone, phasing into a shimmering red and gold as they kissed, and Patton simply continued on with his application.

Logan stayed the whole time, leaning on the doorframe and watching Patton work on the Bard. He wanted to ponder what the effect of the kisses were, why Roman seemed to respond differently to that than, say, the semi-fusion that the Playwright and Artist achieved at the ball. But something still didn’t feel right, though. They were doing effectively nothing; even thinking about these problems, without another mind to bounce ideas off of, was leading him in circles of unclear confusion.

Once the Bard was asleep, Logan resolved to ask Patton if he would accompany him on a walk through the woods. Perhaps they could find something to do, or at the very least clear their heads.

Before the Bard’s lips were completed and the make-up sealed, though, there was a bang at the door. A large, thundering bang, as though it’d been kicked. 

The Bard shot up, as did Logan, followed by Patton. They all hurried to the stairs, hopping down after the Bard, who swung open the door with ease, concerns over his visage forgotten.

The Thief was there, a body wrapped in a black cloak thrown over his shoulders. He himself had a few slashes, a few burn marks, definitely a few indicators that there’d been a fight to get him out. The trio could see the body’s legs, thick boots and black pants that had a solid slice in one of the legs. Likely the Dragon, which was surprising in and of itself.

“Hey,” the Thief hummed, smiling tiredly at the group of them as he trembled on his legs, “You all gotta stop kissing. It’s super weird to turn into a gold looking ghost while in the middle of a fight.”

That relieved the tension fairly quickly. Patton laughed, hurrying closer to grab the Dragon from the Thief, so he wouldn’t drop him. “That’s gonna be real tough, it’s just so nice t’ kiss you!” he chided, kissing the Thief on the cheek.

“Watch out,” the Thief lowered the body into Patton’s arms, then straightened his back only to hunch once more, “Dragon got his ass handed to him. We didn’t realize how far the Prince was reeling to go.”

Logan approached, just as the Thief began to waver. He wrapped his arm around his waist and threw the Thief’s arm over his own shoulder. On the other side, the Bard did the same, helping the Thief to stand. He butted his head against the Thief’s, a small, tired sigh escaping his lips. He just wanted to sleep.

“Let’s get you a shower, then how ‘bout we all go upstairs to nap?” the Bard suggested.

“That’s the best course of action,” Logan nodded in agreement, squeezing the Thief’s side, “That, along with bandaging your wounds. Manually bandage, not magic them away.”

The Bard opened his mouth to respond, but Patton interrupted. “I think Logan’s right,” he shifted his hold on the Dragon, letting his horned head rest on his shoulder (holy shmokes, was that blood at his hairline?) “You keep using magic to heal everyone, but you’re pretty tired yourself. If we just bandage and clean everyone up, then you all can sleep, and when you wake up you can heal them. Okay?”

It seemed that the Bard forgot that his make-up was unsealed, because his eyeliner was smudging, dripping in the rain. That would be tedious to reapply, they didn’t want the Bard waiting up for much longer. He was frowning at Patton, small back lines turning to blotchy patches around his eyes. Not to mention that the foundation they’d applied was smudging as well, clumping into the water droplets. 

And even further, the Thief was falling asleep in their arms. He looked up at the Bard, whose jaw was set in defiance at Logan, and nudged him with his elbow. That got him to soften, turning his attention now to the Thief

“I’ll be fine ‘til morning, y’ dumbass,” he grunted, “It’s cold.”

The Bard’s shoulders sunk. The Thief and Logan were both right. As usual. 

“Are you wearing make-up?” the Thief asked, and the Bard groaned, pulling him upright more.

“You know I don’t like all the scars and-and faults,” his voice was grumbly but he didn’t seem very upset, “Thought I’d put it on then head to sleep.”

The Thief clicked his tongue, then rested his head on the Bard’s shoulder. “Do it after a nap. Come t’ sleep.”

Logan raised an eyebrow at Patton, who shrugged. The Romans were showing various forms of healthy mutual support. That had to be a good sign, right?

“Fine, fine,” the Bard kissed the Thief’s head and nodded toward the door, “You, Dragon, and I have got to shower, and then it’s nap time for all of us.”

“That sounds like a plan, Stan,” Patton said, happy that they’d resolved to sleep soon.

The Bard frowned. “My name’s Roman?”

Patton bobbed his head. “I mean, yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

They starred at each other, confused by the bit, and Logan sighed. He would never understand the appeal of these sorts of shenanigans. 

“Let’s go inside,” he said, then tugged the Thief and the Bard in.

Patton followed closely, and closed the door behind them, careful to not let the rain and draft in.


	26. reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: BIG WARNING FOR SUICIDAL THOUGHTS/MENTION (this and the next chapter), death jokes/nihilistic humor, arguing, argument, general panic, wound mention and description, bleeding, blood, broken bones, eye gouging — that should be it, but let me know!
> 
> this was s o much fun to write lemme tell you !!!!! i'm so stoked it's going up a a a a a a a a
> 
> and, im going to be upfront with y'all. there are going to be 2 more chapters, then 3 epilogues :) i was gonna do 4 epilogues, but the first one makes more sense as an actual chapter lma ooooo
> 
> enjoy!! <3 <3 <3

The Artist awoke with a start. He jerked, not sitting up or flailing so much as having a violent twitch overcome his body. The product of being a morally-inclined Creativity meant that, whenever an unwelcome thought did manage to broach his mind, he immediately rejected it. Or so he’d hoped (the Dragon’s existence seemed to prove otherwise).

He starred at the ceiling, blinking away the questions of where he was and how he was as he saw the familiar wooden ceiling, lit by daylight softened by the wooden walls. They were in the Thief’s tree. The Bard must have gotten him out. 

His hand was resting on someone’s back, and there was a thick weight across his legs. In fact, he seemed to be surrounded by people. The Artist turned his head, eyes flicking around at the sight. 

First was the Playwright, whose warms were wrapped tight around the Artist’s midsection. It was him who the Artist’s hand was resting upon, and he was drooling slightly on the Artist’s shirt. Pleasant. The Artist sighed, rubbing his back and looking to his other side, where the Bard had snuggled his back up against his arm, which was wrapped around his shoulders. Also pleasant.

The Thief was pulled against the Bard’s chest, a bandage wrapped around his neck and face pressed into the Bard’s chest. The Artist raised his eyebrows and patted the Thief’s head, surprised that he was here. Beside the Playwright was the Dragon, with a bandage wrapped around his forehead. The weight atop his legs seemed to be the Dragon’s tail, which the Artist didn’t remember him having at the ball. Maybe it was a feature of the transmutation, that he now Had A Tail? It wrapped around all of them, curling up around the Thief’s hand as though holding him.

Protecting his hoard, the Artist mused. What a turn of events. 

This was nice. Even though they were all still separate people, being physically closer to everyone felt more whole. More like it were meant to be. 

They were going to bring Roman back. That much was clear. This split wasn’t meant to be permanent. The Artist kissed the Playwright’s head and exhaled, leaning back. It was difficult to relax, but he was still quite tired. If he tried, he could probably fall into sleep once more.

Just as he began to wonder if he should sleep again or not, the Thief shifted, jerking awake as well. He was breathing heavily — the tail in his hand squeezed him tighter, comforting or calming him back to bed — and he looked around. 

“Thief,” the Artist whispered, drawing his attention immediately, “You’re okay. Nightmare?”

The Thief swallowed, then nodded. Yes, the things they all created (unconsciously or not, he thought) were starkly different, too. As well as their enjoyments of such.

“Yeah,” he responded, voice shaking, “Yeah, I’m...where are we?”

“Your tree, and we’re all in your giant ass bed,” the Artist said, “I’m still pissed you got the Prince sized bed.”

The Thief chuckled, trying to still his shaking as he pressed more against the Bard. He could remember showering, barely able to keep his eyes open, and then climbing into bed. He must have changed his clothes, though, because he was wearing boxers and an oversized sweater. The Bard was wearing a tank top and pants. They were all wearing some variation of pajamas, even the Dragon, clad in black silk pajamas with tiny crowns printed on it. 

Speaking of the Dragon, before the Artist could respond to the Thief, the Dragon jerked, pushing himself up and thwaping his tail against everyone’s legs. And that woke everyone else up, much slower. 

“Fuck,” the Dragon whispered, looking around, wincing as he turned and dislodged the bandages around his arms.

“What th’ hell?” the Playwright grumbled, looking around groggily, “Who hit my legs?”

“Who hit MY legs?” the Bard asked, blinking at the Thief, “What happened?”

The Thief shrugged, rubbing his shoulder. “Dragon had a nightmare,” he said, looking across the bed at him, “Right?”

The Dragon bit his lip, tail sliding off of everyone and curling up behind himself. He could get rid of it soon, if he wanted, but he couldn’t deny the temptation to hold all of his other parts around himself. They were a part of his hoard. He wanted to keep them. 

The hoard description was a solid metaphor for how the Dragon viewed them. They were important, yeah, but he was the most important. He was the Dragon. Hell yeah.

“Just a nightmare,” he agreed, nodding slow, “Sorry for scaring everyone.”

The Playwright flipped around, laying on his back and using one arm to pull the Dragon closer. The Dragon seemed less perturbed by aforementioned thought, but he obliged happily, snuggling into the Playwright’s arms without comment.

“Ain’t it sad,” the Thief mumbled into the Bard’s chest, “That Roman’s comforting himself?”

That was met by booing of all sorts, while the Thief snickered and hid his face further. Even the Bard smacked him on the head gently, then giggled, brushing his hand through his hair as he looked at the others. 

“Maybe we should find the other Sides,” he suggested, and for the first time ever, the Artist realized that he was adorned with Roman’s old battle scars. “They’d comfort us. You know it.”

He wasn’t sure how he didn’t know this. Perhaps it was because he had never spent enough time with the Bard. They were civil enough as it were; he’d keep the Child during the day, and then return him to the Artist’s house at night. There had been, regretfully, a lot that the Artist had missed while trying to produce content.

Holy Picasso! Their content! The Artist ran a hand through his hair and reached his hand out to the side, swearing quietly while the others continued their conversation.

“We should. Then, some of us should go out to find the Child. Who knows how that lil’ biscuit’s doing.”

“I hope he’s alright. The Prince was really fuckin’ it up out there. For someone who can’t conjure, he’s got a lot of moves.”

“It’s probably because he has a lot of experience in the environment, most of our determination, and no will to live,” the Playwright handed the Artist his glasses, which he slid on quick. 

“Thanks,” the Artist looked at the Thief with a squint, “If he’s doing so much damage, why’d you leave him with Child?”

“Remus dropped a tower on me, not like I could do much to fight him after that,” the Dragon grumbled, one of his hands shooting to the back of his head at the memory, “Son of a rooster.”

The Bard raised an eyebrow at him. “Son of a….rooster?”

“A cock,” the Thief grumbled.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” the Dragon laughed, tail slapping against the mattress behind him.

They all watched him with varying levels of disdain, until the Playwright patted his head. “A little impulsive. But that is okay,” he mussed up the Dragon’s hair and scratched his head, turning back to the group as the Artist cleared his throat and restarted.

“Speaking of our Dumbass in Distress, though, are we going to continue calling him Damsel? Or are we switching to Prince? Because I for one did not know they were the same person.”

The Bard nodded. “I didn’t, either. I think….Dragon?”

“Mhm?” the Dragon opened an eye at them, having closed them in happiness while the Playwright scratched his head.

“Why’d Prince change his name?” the Thief asked, point blank. “And what’s your sitch?”

The Dragon’s disposition shifted immediately. He grimaced, hand curling into a tight fist as he rubbed his eye. His tail disappeared, too, seeming to sink back into his spine. 

Of course. He needed to explain himself and his idiocracy. That’s what it was! Idiocracy! He was an idiot, a dunce, a complete egghead, for ever TRUSTING that dastardly Prince!

“I’ve got,” his voice was a soft rumble, smoke escaping from his lips as he spoke, “A hunch, about his name. A kind of gnawing pit of dread, if you would.”

“I would,” the Artist said, “Can you elaborate?”

 He gave the Artist a look that could only be described as “kicked and then shouted at puppy” before shuffling away from the Playwright and curling in on himself. “He said he wanted to make a new Roman. He was no longer the Prince, and he wanted me to literally whip him into shape. Put him in distress. Ergo, the Damsel in Distress.

“In regards to what he wanted out of me, though, he said he wanted me to replace him. As someone who would be better than himself. I...cannot say I was fully trusting of Prince, when he first came to the castle, but I’m not the sharpest.”

“Tool in the she-ed,” the Bard sang under his breath, until the Thief elbowed him. 

The Dragon didn’t seem to notice, continuing while he sat upright onto his knees. As he pulled the blanket into his lap, they could all see the bruises that littered his chest and shoulders, the nicks and cuts from swords along his arms. The Prince fought well. “The whipping, that was a test, to see if we could kill one of us. As you all can tell, he didn’t die. He said he thought if there were more than one, if there were all of us, then I would be able to kill you all and take control.”

He huffed sadly once more, eyes still stuck on the blankets in his lap. “What he called, ‘my rightful place.’ I was a fool to believe him. Perhaps he meant to keep me as his successor, I don’t know. It seemed like he wanted to kill us all, though, and I’m….so sorry that I let him even try.”

None of them knew how to process that.

To be fair, the Dragon had been posing as a villain this whole time. It wasn’t like he had a streak of goodness through this trying trial run. And his explanation would require him to be both incredibly narcissistic and dumb. 

Which, in the other Romans’ minds, he had proven himself to be. Not all of them were geniuses. The Dragon was much more of the brawn of the operation as well, given how Remus dropped an entire tower from the castle onto him to knock him out. 

Honestly, the Thief didn’t think Remus had gotten involved, but that made sense when he thought about the castle’s extensive damage. Or, the castle was burning down, and a tower just so happened to fall on the Dragon. Either one seemed plausible. 

It was plausible to any of them. The castle had burnt pretty badly before the Artist and Remus got around to fixing it….

Hang on. How many versions of Remus were running around? How did he have the time to get to the castle? And then to kicking the Dragon’s ass on behalf of the Prince?

That shit don’t add up.

The Bard snorted, visualizing the phone calculator and reaction image, and the Thief elbowed him again. 

“Dragon, Roman,” the Dragon flinched, but looked up at the Playwright, who was sitting up beside him. He rested a hand on the Dragon’s leg and continued talking, “Just like all of us, you were doing what you thought was best for Roman. These were very unconventional means, of course, and I’m not excusing your murderous intent and flagrant narcissism. It did take a lot of strength to tell us this, though, and thank you for your apology. I believe we should all work together moving forward, especially in….”

He took a deep breath, and squeezed the Dragon’s knee, “Especially in reconnecting with Prince. That will be an invariable team effort.”

There was a brief, tense silence. They WOULD need to reconnect with the Prince, especially if they were to reform Roman. The original Roman. No special changes, no faux improvements. All the dramatics and all the knowledge and, perhaps, a little more self respect.

Like, yeah, they’d have to get the Damsel back in on this, ‘cause he’d lose his Princely theme-ing without the Prince to theme him.

“Are you sure you would like to fraternize with the enemy here?” the Dragon whispered.

“You’ve never been the real enemy, Beauty and the Bitch,” the Thief said, smirking slightly, “Not really. You can see that, same as us.”

The Dragon watched him, face set in a loose dumbstruck, slack jawed awe. He gazed over the other Romans, all of whom watched him with a weird mix of love and acceptance. Self-love. 

They didn’t hate him. And they didn’t hate the Prince, either. The Dragon, as played as he was, didn’t even hate the Prince. He just wanted to be whole again. And he loved every part of him. 

He was taken aback. 

He sniffed, then wiped his eye with his wrist. “God damn it, I can’t wait to be whole,” he whispered into his arm.

The Playwright grabbed the Dragon’s shoulder, pulling him in for a small hug. The feeling buzzed, across both of them, but for the moment it was stifled. It felt more like a thirst. A desire to hug and be hugged and to be held for all of eternity. 

They were pulled backwards, back onto the Artist’s chest, by the Bard. Who then wrapped himself around all three of them, laughing. The Thief joined in, a small smile on his face as his arm cradled the Playwright’s and the Bard’s shoulders, holding everyone together. 

He was Roman; he was doing well. 

After a minute or so of quiet, of being content in his own presence, the buzzing returned. Perhaps all the tight hugs were cutting off blood circulation to choice parts of their bodies? Who knew. The Thief clicked his tongue, letting go and slowly shimmying out of bed. 

“Now that we’re all up and rested, we should go downstairs. Check on the others, head outside, find Child and Prince,” he said.

“I agree,” the Playwright climbed off next, pulling the Artist out with him and snapping both of their original outfits on, “I recommend Bard and Dragon stay here, so that Bard can heal his wounds. Then, Bard can hold down this fort with the other Sides, so they stay out of harms way, while we circle the perimeter.”

The Artist bobbed his head, then nodded. He waited until the Dragon had gotten out of the bed before he turned around and began remaking it. “I can stay back, too. I’ve gotta admit, I’m not much of a fighter.”

“I can fight for us both,” the Dragon nudged his waist with his own, then took off his own shirt in order to flex. Ridiculous. " _ No one~ fights like Dra-gon! Douses lights like Dra-gon! In a wrestling match, no one bites like Dra-gon!” _

The Bard, taking that as a cue, summoned his ukulele and strummed along with a smile.  _ “For there’s no one as burly or brawny~!” _

“Yeah, yeah,” the Thief put a hand on his ukulele and looked around. He had conjured a simple black pair of pants and red shirt, but his cloak also sat upon his shoulders, wrapped around him like a blanket, “Stop with the singing. Let’s head downstairs already.”

“Right-o!” the Bard said with a grin, sending the ukulele away as the crowd of crowns slowly stepped toward the stairs. 

The Thief led, footsteps slow and careful. Good thing, too, because they heard raised voices near the bottom. He lifted a hand to signal for everyone to stop.

It sounded like all the other Sides were still in the tree. That was good. If they’d run out, well, none of the Romans knew what they’d do or how they’d fare in the Imagination all alone. Granted, they could never truly be alone. One of the Romans would probably find them. Probably. 

Still, their argument was audible from a few steps up, just barely hidden around the turn.

“And what if they’re hurt?! What if Remus got them — we can’t trust him! We don’t know what he’s gonna do!” Surprisingly, the panicked voice was Patton.

“Deceit is right, we need to stay here,” Logan, rational as ever. “Imagine the chaos should the others wake up to find us all gone.”

“So you can stay here!” Nevermind, Virgil was definitely the most panicked, “You stay here and baby them or something, ‘cause if Princey’s off on a suicide quest where the goal? Is suicide? Then I think we’ve got a right to intervene.”

“I never said we don’t have a right, and I never said we should not intervene. I simply am arguing that we should await further instruction and explanation from the Romans. Beyond waiting for the others, I am concerned about leaving them with Dragon, who we know is a possible hostile,” at that, the Dragon winced, and the Artist rubbed his shoulder sympathetically.

“I don’t think so. He somehow got Roman’s complete braincell black hole,” Deceit chuckled, while Patton gasped in offense. “Dragon’s proven to be the dumbest of the bunch.”

“You take that back! You know as good as the rest of us that Roman’s smart!”

“I know, I know,” Deceit’s voice lowered — did he know they were being listened to? “We can’t trust all of them, though. Roman’s volatile right now. I don’t want to upset him.”

“That’s….you’re right.”

“What? Patton, no! That’s even MORE of a reason to go after Child and Princey! For all we know, Princey’s tearing him to pieces right now!”

“No!” Patton seemed to hit something, probably a hard surface like the counter, oh my goodness was he cooking something, because his exclamation was immediately followed with a dull thud of flesh hitting tile and a soft, “Ow.”

“Virgil, please, breathe. Would you like for me to instruct you through your breathing exercises?” the Thief moved to step forward, but the Playwright held him back, still squinting at the sliver of the living room that they could see. He wanted to keep listening. 

“I’m fine. I just….I don’t want Roman to get hurt.”

“On the contrary, I think Roman’s pulling himself together. Dragon’s fighting alongside Thief? What Patton said Bard said upon arrival?” Deceit laughed, one soft breath, “It seems like our story’s nearly reached its climax.”

“Deceit. Buddy,” Virgil was so exasperated, the Bard had to stifle a laugh. “What’d I say about the fourth wall?”

“Come now, Virgil, it’s a figure of speech! What I mean is that Roman should be joining us soon, and if we interfere with that connection, we might lose him for forever.”

“No! No, I will NOT be loosing my practically perfect Prince!” 

“He’s not practically perfect, Patton, we discussed how perfection is an unattainable goal in the previous chapter.”

“Guys, seriously! The wall!”

“I’m sorry, it was the quickest way to remind ourselves of the main issue at hand — resolving Roman is not completely a feat we need to intervene upon. While it is true that our interruption of what I priorly called a ‘pity party’ may have been the turning point of Roman’s self-realization, we cannot aid him on every step of that journey. There are some points where he must realize that he is who he is.”

“And who he is is amazing! And I love him.”

“Yes, Patton, we know.”

“And I love you!”

“Yes, Patton, I know.”

“And I love Virgil, and I love Logan!”

“Yes, Patton.”

“I love you, too, Patt.”

“I as well.”

“......me too.”

A loud squeal. The Thief exhaled, shoulders loosening as he did so, and turned back to the others. They were all starring forward, confused, but determined. 

Logan was right. There were certain things that they had to figure out on their own. And, if their discussions with the Dragon were any indication, they were on their way to achieving that ultimate reconnection. 

Damn, they were going to be Roman again. He was going to be Roman! 

There was a knock at the door. Soft, quiet. So quiet that only the Thief fully heard it. 

“Was that—” the Playwright was cut off by the Thief darting forward, jumping over the coffee table and dodging the disassembling hug pile while he beelined for the door. 

He jumped the steps two at a time, followed closely by the Dragon, who was also excited and anxious to see the newcomers. They had a hunch as to who it might be. 

The Thief swung open the door, the Dragon and now Virgil behind him. 

The Child grinned up at them, two feet slung over each of his shoulders. “Hiya!” he said. 

There was a beat, a pause. The Child had grown. He was no longer elementary school age, but was somewhere closer to middle school, maybe even high school. Still a child, but less so. He had a few cuts in his clothing, a cut across his jaw, one spot of red blood wetting the white shirt he wore, but other than that he was relatively unscathed. He must have been in the rain for a while, too, because his hair was matted firmly against his head, water still pouring down atop him. Still, he was victorious.

Behind the Child, being dragged along the forrest floor, was the Damsel. At some point during the fight, he must have changed clothes, or else had been wearing his uniform beneath his dress the whole time, because he still wore only his black tanktop and a white pair of pants (no longer ripped, however).

Along with that, though, were a number of new wounds. Notably, there was a trail of blood streaking through his hair and clotting around his hairline. A large bruise was forming around the Damsel’s jaw, which was leant at an abnormal angle. Holy shmokes, did the Child break his jaw?

His eyepatch was gone as well, and the others could clearly see claw marks where his eye used to be. The Dragon raised an eyebrow to that; he had never done THAT to the Damsel. 

“We’re home,” the Child said.

“That you are,” the Dragon stepped around the still gobsmacked Thief and patted the Child’s head, “Let me take that off your back.”

The Child, without hesitation, lowered the Damsel’s legs onto the ground. From there, the Dragon picked him up, shifting him in his arms to cradle. Both of them were getting soaked by the rainwater, but the Dragon didn’t mind much. He still handled the Damsel with the utmost care. After all, he’d broken him down like this, validated this self-loathing with his immense pride. It was only just that he take care of him now.

The others filed out after, Patton gasping upon seeing the defeated Damsel. Virgil held the Child steady as he trembled on his feet but kept his eyes locked on the immobile body, and Logan quickly went to the Dragon, lifting the Damsel’s arm and feeling for a pulse. 

There. Faint, but consistent. He would wake up soon enough. 

“He will be okay,” Logan said, turning back and gently calming Patton and Virgil, .

“Darn,” Deceit hummed, sarcasm devoid of humor, “Child, did you do that?”

“Not really,” he yawned, then shook his head as he smacked his lips, “I just sorta….I dunno.”

He was so tired. So worn. “I just did my best. I guess.”

The Child shrugged, and the Bard stooped down, opening his arms. The Child leaned into him, wrapping his arms around his neck and letting himself be picked up. Held. Again. 

A little support was nice. Needed, sometimes.

The Dragon’s tail flicked around his back, returning to existence and brushing the Damsel’s hair back while he cradled his body. Support was definitely needed at one’s lowest point.

The Artist smiled at the Child, then looked at the Damsel with a smaller frown. Speaking of support, how the heck were they going to talk to the Damsel once he woke up?

That was something they’d have to worry about later. Right now, they had to get him cleaned up, healed (the Playwright resolved to help the Bard with that, since he could) and tucked into bed. What a weird form of self-care. 

“You did great. Damn,” the Thief rubbed the back of his neck, standing just barely in the shade of his own tree, slight rain drops landing on his shoulders, “We all underestimated you.”

“Very mature of you,” the Playwright added.

“I just did what needed to be done,” the Child said with a shrug. He didn’t really know why he was downplaying this, but it didn’t feel like that big of an accomplishment. Honestly, he felt kinda upset that it HAD to be done. The Damsel was one of them, and he’d hurt him, real bad. 

The Bard brushed his hand through the Child’s hair. He may have grown, but he was still just a kid at heart, wasn’t he? He squeezed his shoulders, hoping that he could tell how proud he was. How proud they all were. How devastated they were, too, that it had to be done. 

They were going to bring him back. It would be okay. 

“You did amazing, Child,” the Artist said, ruffling his hair as well, “What happened?”

They probably should have gotten out of the rain, but even Logan was much more curious to hear what had transpired. And, besides, it wasn’t like any of them were opposed to another slow shower. Or perhaps a bath. 

The Child rubbed his face, wiping some of the blood from the cut on his jaw, and grinned in that cheekily proud way Roman does. Deceit smiled, as did Patton. He’d done so well. 

“After Thief and Dragon left, Remus left, too. I think Princey told him to leave. I dunno. But then, no one was watching the castle, and I got a whole wall section to fall on him,” the Child brushed his shirt, and grey dust reminiscent of the castle’s stone, “When he was unconscious, I threw his legs over my shoulders and dragged him here.”

The adults all starred at him incredulously. The first to say anything is actually Logan, who clears his throat as though to clear the tension. 

“That was a good call of you. Smart. To use the environment to your advantage,” he looked back at the Damsel’s body, silent and still in the Dragon’s arms, “He still has a pulse, so he’ll likely wake up soon.”

Deceit nodded. “And this storm seems to be letting up,” the thunder cracked above them, punctuating the lie, “We shouldn’t get inside.”

“Does that mean the castle’s broken down?” the Dragon grumbled quietly, not to anyone in particular, “Damn.”

“We can build a new one, better than ever,” the Thief whispered back.

The Playwright frowned at Deceit, and ushered the Thief and Dragon into the doorway. “So when you going to stop talking in straight up—”

The Bard snapped his fingers. “GAY up!”

The Playwright cast him a withering look, and turned back to Deceit. “....Stop talking in lies?”

Deceit held the door, motioning Patton, Logan, the Artist in. “In a bit. Once it stops,” he cleared his throat as it grew more hoarse, “Tingling.”

“Fair enough,” the Playwright hummed, stepping into the doorway, “C’mon.”

He took Deceit’s hand, and the door closed gently behind them, sealing back into the tree’s trunk. After he entered, the Playwright kissed his cheek, and moved to follow the royal retinue up the stairs. However — and it happened in a flash, a confusing momentary thought — they all thought in unison that he should explain what they were all planning. The Playwright sighed, stopping two steps up. 

“We can take care of the Damsel,” he said, looking back at the other four as they all opened their mouths to argue, “You were right. We need to take care of ourself. Support ourself, discuss what to do, discuss our own issues and hopefully come to some form of resolution.”

Infuriatingly, Logan understood. He held a hand out in front of Virgil, who had stiffened, hunching in anger as he probably thought up a retort about accepting group support, and nodded. “Understandable. We may interrupt at some point, of course, but we will allow you all the space to confer with yourselves on the best course of action.”

The Playwright smiled, a little sorrowful. 

“Good luck,” Patton said, nodding his head, “We’ll, uh….we’ll stay down here and spruce it up! And then we’ll go upstairs to check on you later for dinner!”

“Will you let us know once the Damsel awakens?” Deceit asked, raising his eyebrow, “Or at least once we’re allowed back upstairs.”

“Of course!” the Playwright nodded vigorously; he didn’t want them getting the impression that they were wholly unwelcomed, not by any stretch of the Imagination!

The four Sides shared looks. Virgil was definitely the most reproachful, face set in a firm scowl at the thought of leaving Roman to his own devices; Logan, in juxtaposition, was calm and confident; Deceit was wary as ever; Patton smiled. He knew, deep down, that they were going to be alright. 

He gave Virgil one tiny nod, and Virgil rolled his eyes. They all had a point. They couldn’t baby Roman through every single step of self-acceptance. That was the whole point of the ‘self’ thing.

“Fine. Just let us know when he wakes up, okay? We’ll bring dinner,” Virgil gave the Playwright a sidelong glance, and he nodded again, just as excited. 

“We very much will!” he looked around at everyone again, and sighed, courageous and calm, “Thank you all so much for your help. I….I love you.”

“I love you, too, Roman.”

 


	27. some day my prince will come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: self-judgements, broken bones, descriptions of pain, wound mentions, scabs, scars, missing eye, crying, suicidal thoughts, a storm, thunder/lightning, a lot of self-reflection and kinda disassociation — i think that’s all? but please let me know if i should add anything else!!!
> 
> im literally so excited y'all, we are FINALLY HERE !!!!! i've gotta post this now or else i'll keep editing it until the end of time alskdhaslkfghlh
> 
> hope you enjoy!!! <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

“Oh, oh, what if we did costumes again? Halloween is ACTUALLY coming up, and we could do something fun! Festivity!”

“We’ve done a Halloween video and a Christmas video. Doing one of either would make us want to balance it with another festive video later on the road, which we currently do not have plans for.”

“Plus, this video’s coming out in September. That’s not really a festive anything time.” 

“How’re we feeling on a new song?”

“I dunno, my singing voice’s still ‘round!”

“I could probably write a song. We would have to discuss a song with Joan, though, and it depends on what the topic is.”

“You’re right. Hmm. Also depends on who’s in it.”

Thoughts were such a loud thing. Roman was very used to having too many of them. Too many thoughts, same as Remus, same as Creativity before them, always flitting around loud and demanding of attention.

One would think that Remus had the never-ending thought train, but to say that only part of Creativity was ever generating would be a gross oversimplification of his existence. Roman was always creating, always thinking: the issue was typically that those thoughts were outlandish or unrealistic. He had a filter (and a harsh one at that). Therein laid the largest difference.

“Maybe...maybe a video kinda sorta about being happy with yourself?”

“We’re gonna have to expand on that one, maybe call in Patton to hash out the deets. We could do a ‘Draw My Life’ in the meantime?”

When he heard the chatter, that’s what he thought it was. Just his thoughts, being a little too loud again. And, in hindsight, he wasn’t really wrong. He was probably asleep in his treehouse, after a long day of creating fruitless ideas. Hopefully he didn’t sleep through breakfast, but time was wonky here, anyway. He hoped Patton wouldn’t mind. Maybe he wouldn’t go out today.

He didn’t have as straight-forward of a directive as the other Sides. Roman had to create, but whether that be a video idea, day dream, life goal, or fantasy was up for debate. Patton was worried about the rights and the wrongs and the tears and the hugs. Logan was most concerned with reality; Virgil was most concerned for his safety. Deceit was, at least, looking out for his personal best interests. 

Sure, Roman had to achieve Thomas’ dreams. But some good he was doing at that now. 

Wouldn’t it be better to have another Side to do that? To give Thomas a fresh start, so he wouldn’t have to deal with a fast-lipped, overly egotistical and flamboyantly useless idiot prince? He could have a fantastical figment who actually got things done, hopes achieved, love won, ideas created. 

“How about we talk to Logan about the realism of that one? What’s the budget again?”

“It’s most likely out of budget, but we can put a note to look into it further. Perhaps we could splurge to conceptualize an interestingly captivating concept.”

It was, currently, another day. And Roman had to get up and go outside, down to the kitchen, and get himself a distraction from these thoughts. Something to distract himself and Thomas from his never ending spiral of failure, because he’d failed Thomas, he’d failed his charge. Let alone he failed the others, the keepers of his heart, his beautiful Muses. He’d failed everyone. 

He didn’t know how he’d failed them just yet, that hadn’t kicked in; he hadn’t been waking up very optimistic lately. He shifted in his bed, minutely, not wanting to get up and face his shortcomings. Roman just wanted to be at peace.

He reached a hand up to his face. The insecurities were truly boiling today.

For once, the thoughts around him silenced. That had never happened, never ever. Roman frowned, rubbing one of his eyes as he opened the other, then realized in a moment of pain what was wrong.

It washed back over him in an instant. He wasn’t Roman, he was the Prince. The Damsel. There were six clones of him, six different versions of Roman, sitting around him on the bed. One was even snuggled against his side, the touch burning into his skin. 

Oh. He’d tried to kill all of them, too. 

Ah, and his eye hurt, because he’d tried to tear it out with his own hand. And now he was rubbing his scabbing wound. Ah. Ah, hah, hah.

The Damsel laughed, tears prickling at the edge of his other eye as he lowered his hand. “What are you all doing here?” he cleared his throat, and his head throbbed as he did so, though it didn’t feel like anything was punctured or wounded. “Where am I?”

Actually, it felt like he didn’t have any wounds. How could that be? A whole wall collapsed onto him. Carefully, the Damsel tried to shift closer to the edge of the bed, but then winced. Scratch that health assessment, his fucking leg was still broken. Wonderful.

“You’re at the tree. You know, the tree, and Child brought you here. Bard healed you up as much as he could, we tucked you in, and we’ve been brainstorming,” the Thief explained, voice soft but cold, “You’ve probably still got phantom pains, though. And your leg, there’s that.”

The Bard rubbed the back of his neck. “I got real tired,” he said, “‘M sorry I couldn’t fix it all.”

The weight on his side shifted, and the Damsel scrambled away, trying to ignore the searing flame in his tibia. It shouldn’t just have been that, though, he’d been COVERED in bruises! Cuts! Stab wounds! The Child hadn’t held punches, he’d literally stabbed the Damsel at least thrice, so why had they  _ saved him?! _

It all hurt. 

He couldn’t handle it; he didn’t deserve it. 

They should all be  _ dead _  anyway. 

Why was he in a bed? The Damsel glanced at the person beside him — the Child sat up, wearing a large smock. He was the only one in pajamas beside the Damsel, as everyone else was circled around the bed in their regular clothing. Perhaps for comfort?

Comfort? He had to laugh. 

Were they going to kill him? He remembered how they spoke about him at their initial encounter. Maybe that was for the best, maybe that was how to kill the Prince. It had to be a unanimous decision? Maybe that was why his leg was still broken, so he couldn’t run. They shouldn’t have worried about that, though.

None of them were moving toward him, though. In fact, they all kept their distance. Even the Child was sitting upright, hands on his knees and watching the Damsel with a hard expression. Not mean, or angry even. Determined. To do what?

To kill you, my sweet, of course. 

The Damsel ran a hand through his hair, trying to slow his breathing. He shouldn’t be panicking, he didn’t have the energy, the time, the reason. But they were all watching him without a hint of anger. Maybe suspicion (the Thief’s hand was sitting well into his cloak) and apprehension (mirroring scowls on the Artist and Playwright’s faces, disdainful) but they were surprisingly complacent. The Dragon was even smiling at him. 

What on Poseidon’s trident was happening? He deserved to be hated. He deserved to DIE.

“Why?” was all he could get his mouth to ask.

They looked at each other, as though sharing a thought. They’d already formed a bond without him. Of course! Yes. They were going to kill him. They were going to— “Because we love you,” the Bard said.

What?

“Love?”

“Indeed. We love ourselves, ergo we love Roman,” the Playwright counted on his hand, then leaned forward, resting his chin on the chair back before him, “Every part of him.”

“Including you,” the Artist added.

The Damsel squinted at them both, brow pinching as he tried to understand what they were saying. Two halves of a half of a whole, fighting for dominance, for superiority. How could they have reconciled? How could any of them have reconciled? How could they have accepted HIM? 

By God, he didn’t even DO anything worthy of reconciliation! 

He’d tried to KILL them, what the heck was happening?!

“How do you love Roman?” he pressed, slowly slipping the blankets off. He glanced down. 

All he was wearing was a pair of soft cotton pants, baggy as all get out. What happened to his clothing? The Damsel slowly touched his chest — his ribs, at least two, had surely been broken by that wall. But nothing. 

The broken leg was something of a blessing, then. 

“You’re supposed to  _ hate _  me,” he whispered. 

No response to that. He looked up to see them all looking at each other, making gestures in silence. The Child motioned towards him, not looking at him, and that’s when it hit the Damsel.

The emotion they all bore. It wasn’t simple acceptance. It was pity. It was….

Apology?

But why? 

“He tries his best. He is hard working, loyal, respectful. He’s got his flaws, yeah, but we love him with all that,” the Child had been hugging the Damsel’s chest earlier — the Child, who had just dropped a wall on him, who he had imprisoned, who had traded insults like playing cards and was so so so full of wondrous naïvety that the Damsel knew he either had to be protected or murdered. 

Not allowed to roam openly free as he was now. How unbelievable. He had to be guarded, he was all they had left. All  _ Thomas _ had left!

“But he’s still annoying. Useless,” the Damsel looked around at all of them, the fire boiling in his chest as he realized how complacent they’d become with their own inefficiencies, “He’s not good enough. He’s still a Prince. He could be MORE.”

Everyone shrugged, waved their hands, something dismissive. Were they dismissing him? Of course they were, this whole thing started with them hating him, of course they would never think that—

“Being a Prince is completely fine. Welcomed, even,” the Bard said. 

“Princey, you’re flawed, yeah, but perfect, in just the way you are,” the Dragon nodded to the Bard while looking over the Damsel with authority. “We….we’re all Roman, right! We’re all perfect in how we should be.”

No, they weren’t. He wasn’t.

That was a lie. 

It was all lies. He wasn’t good enough. 

Not with all his failures, not with all the —  _ “I’m getting this all wrong.” _

No, not now. The Damsel ran a hand through his hair, then gripped the back of his head. 

_ “Gee, I wonder.” _

_ “I think you’re just being a jerk.” _

_“It would be WRONG to go back on that!”_

_ “LOVE the new outfit, Roman.” _

_ “It wasn’t….good?” _

_ “El Principe es el stupido.” _

_ “I’m just so bored of singing the same thing.” _

_ “I didn’t mind Roman’s little Aunt Patty in the hospital excuse.” _

He hated being Roman. He hated being insecure.

“I’m not,” don’t cry, don’t cry damnit, “I’m not good enough. Not-Not as Roman. Not for Thomas.”

All of the others leaned back, except for the Child. This was what the Damsel had taken, in the massive split. “For Thomas?” the Child prompted gently.

The Damsel closed his eye and motioned to the side. He shimmied fully out of the bed, trying to get away, ignoring the pain as he usually did. The Playwright stepped back, allowing the Damsel to take a step, easing himself into having more room. He paced two more steps before leaning on the wall. If he had to run, he could. But he couldn’t put weight on it anymore. The fighting, the dancing….he wouldn’t be surprised if there were just bone shards in there.

He didn’t think he needed an explanation. He’d hoped he could get through this without having to explain the hopelessness that he felt. 

A split had to be caused by something. The Dragon, he’d protected, he’d nurtured even. Told him he was better than he was. All because the Damsel was the crack in the armor. The burnt out fuse. The absence of Ego. He was what had been dragging Thomas down all this time, it all made sense. 

“Everything we do….” the Damsel cleared his throat and shook his head. “Everything Roman does. Has ever done. Has been for Thomas. You all know this.”

That sounded wrong, but none of them really knew enough about Roman’s prior mannerisms to dispute it. “Um,” the Artist said, “I guess?”

The Damsel shuffled to the side, watching the ground. The rug had an old pattern on it, X’s and O’s, like a drawing Thomas made on his bedroom wall when he was five. 

What he wouldn’t give for that again. That sweetness. Not to mention, to be whole. To have hope. He rubbed his eye with the butt of his palm and looked out the translucent walls. Such a pretty world….such grand feats….when was the last time he’d added anything substantial to it?

“It’s my sworn duty to help him achieve his dreams. To give him hope,” the Damsel looked up at them, “When was the last time we did that?”

“Do you want an honest answer?” the Bard whispered back. 

The Damsel turned around to him, face blank as a slate. The Bard flinched, shying under his gaze. 

The Dragon’s tail snaked around, grasping his hand tight in a comforting squeeze. He could speak. It’d be okay. The Bard took a breath. “The last time we were daydreaming was two days ‘fore the Imagination took us under,” he said, “We were thinking about how–how to round back to the callback/wedding situation, and had a breakthrough thought. We wrote it on our desk so we wouldn’t forget because we were so excited.”

Ah, yeah. That’d happened.

The Damsel shook his head and looked back out the window. “Was that an idea? Or just, you know. Doing our job.”

“Aren’t they the same thing?” 

“Are they?”

Everyone was silent around him. 

Perhaps that was the issue. They were all productive. They disputed, of course, as would be expected when split amongst the seams in such a way. If recombined, though, they could probably achieve wonderful things. They could create such beautiful dreams. 

The Damsel cleared his throat. “I will admit defeat, here,” he murmured, “But if you’re going to bring Roman back, I recommend you do so without my involvement. I don’t want to….taint him.”

“Paint him? That’s my job,” the Artist mumbled, fiddling with a pen from the desk he was leaning against.

The Thief rolled his eyes, arms still crossed as he sat on the desk chair. “He said taint.”

“I know, I know, I just,” the Artist sat down behind the Playwright, hiding his embarrassed face in his shoulder, “It’s so tense! And he’s wrong!”

“We can’t bring Roman back without you, Damsel,” the Bard whispered, “He wouldn’t be the same.”

“But I’m EXACTLY what Thomas doesn’t need!” the Damsel turned back to face the group, jerking his thumb towards himself in a fit of anger, “I’m all the parts that shouldn’t be allowed back into Roman — you all at LEAST have virtues, I’m just—”

“Falsehood.”

The Thief, who had been leaning on the center column-wall, now jumped back toward the bed. Logan was standing in the stairwell, a plate in his hand. Behind him were the rest of the Sides, all carrying some form of food. 

Fuck, was it dinner time already? 

The Damsel flinched backwards, pressing himself against the wall. Curse his limiting abilities. On any other day, he could have phased through this very wall, turned into a pigeon, and booked it. But noOoOo, he had to be as useless as ever and sit here while the other Sides berated him for being a self-destructive MESS. 

“Damsel, kiddo, you’re awake!” they all shuffled into the room, Patton setting down the tray of food he was holding and rushing over to the Damsel. 

He stopped in front of him, carefully looking him over for injuries, and keeping a distance. If they’d learned anything from dealing with all these Romans, it was that he couldn’t just dash into them. They all had their own paces. And Patton was a good jogger! He could keep pace with any of them!

Behind him, Deceit began helping the other Romans grab their dinners, while still keeping a close eye on Patton and the Damsel. Logan and Virgil did the same, trying to keep a solid distance. 

If any of them would get the Damsel to be comfortable, ease up, calm down, it would be Patton. And if any of them were going to immediately disregard the prior agreement to not get too involved in Roman’s self-acceptance, well….it was also Patton.

Those two things would definitely be easier if the Damsel would just stop hyperventilating. He wheezed, pounding his chest lightly with one hand while the other gripped the wall behind him like a lifeline. 

This would be a pathetic way to die, hm.

“Hey, hey,” Patton said, leaning in and gently placing his hands on the Damsel’s arms, rubbing up and down in a soothing manner, “You’re okay. I don’t wanna  _ distress  _ you too much.”

That got the Damsel to at least squint, mouth parting slightly but unable to choke out the words. He hissed, covering his mouth and closing his eye as he attempted to calm down. 

“I don’t know if this is the time for puns, Patton,” Logan said wearily.

“It’s always a good time for puns,” the Playwright objected.

Logan sighed, but sat when the Playwright motioned for him to. Everyone was sitting in some form: the Bard had his legs kicked up in Deceit’s and the Thief’s laps, eating the couscous slow; the Child was sitting on the bed with Virgil and the Artist, wedged between them as he picked apart the salmon. They were all fairly comfortable with each other.

Everyone was looking at the Damsel and Patton.

Virgil was honestly gripping one of his knives, hidden in the pocket of his hoodie, just in case the Damsel. You know. Pulled something. 

Slowly, the Damsel’s breathing leveled, and he shook out his arms gently to tell Patton to let go. “I should leave,” he said, voice soft, “I–I don’t want to intrude.”

“Where’ll you go?” Patton asked. 

He stepped back, and the Damsel shifted his weight on his feet, hands tugging at his pants. “Where’re my regular clothes?” he ignored Patton’s question, looking over at the Dragon.

He shrugged. 

Figures. The Damsel grimaced, then looked down. He couldn’t conjure anything for himself, so apparently these pants would have to do. 

“I’ll just—”

“You’re not going anywhere, mister,” Patton interrupted, putting his hands on his hips, “Like you said! We can’t have a ball without a prince! And we’re really havin’ a ball with all of you!”

The Damsel squinted at him, then looked at Logan for help. 

He made a continuing motion with his hand, but he didn’t change topics. He didn’t tell Damsel he was stupid. “Roman cannot reform without you, not in his original state. Contrary to what you believe, we need you.”

Well, he hadn’t taken Logan for a liar, but he’s been wrong before. The Damsel frowned, then shook his head. “You think I’m worth less than a percent in the grand scheme of Thomas’ life.”

Logan frowned, a minute action that made the Damsel fell much too righteous. He guestured to Deceit and added, “He thinks I’m dumb. Easy to manipulate.”

“He’s not wrong,” the Dragon laughed, pointing to himself.

The Damsel squinted, unsure of if the Dragon knew he was calling himself stupid. Such a digression would be too large for the current conversation, though, and the Damsel knew that. He shook his head and ignored the Dragon. 

“Virgil’s said that we’re a failure, that I’m–that we’re not useful,” Virgil opened his mouth to argue, but the Damsel already moved onto Patton, “And you’re obligated to love me, because you….if I’m not good enough for you, then I’m just as bad as  _ him _ .”

His brother’s unspoken name rang clear in the Damsel’s venomous and terrified pronunciation. 

“You all barely tolerate me,” the Damsel’s gestures were much more muted, in comparison to Romans, to all of their. His motion to all of them barely stretched farther than his chest. “And if YOU don’t like me, then….”

His voice caught, and he looked down. 

He didn’t owe them an explanation. He didn’t need to do any of this. 

He didn’t DESERVE this. What are you thinking, spilling your insecurities?

That was it, wasn’t it. He was insecurities and doubts and self-hatred all bundled into a beautiful princely package. How vile. 

And he wanted comfort.

So badly. 

“Keep going,” the Child whispered and, suddenly, he was at the Damsel’s side. His hands held onto the Damsel’s, and his small feet were standing atop the Damsel’s, as though they were going to dance. 

He swallowed. He couldn’t look them in the eye. 

It wanted to scoop the Child up in the biggest hug imaginable. 

“I need to be better. For Thomas. If you all dislike me, then I’m–I’m not performing adequately, and Thomas deserves so much more,” the Damsel closed his eye, trying not to let the tears seep out, “I would lay down my sword and my heart for all of you, but my foremost duty is–is to Thomas.”

To be completely frank?

The other Romans sort of forgot that Thomas was also a factor in this game. He hadn’t tried summoning them since that first day, and he had never been at the forefronts of their minds. Perhaps that was why this confession from the Damsel struck all of them with surprise.

So committed to themselves that they forgot they weren’t even a whole human. 

“Roman,” Virgil, surprisingly, spoke up first, “I don’t think we’d love you nearly as much if Thomas didn’t also think you were great.”

“We do not disapprove of you,” Logan continued, nodding at Virgil, “On the contrary, as we’ve discussed with the other facets of Roman, we love you.”

“Like, love love. Not just love. We super love you,” Virgil tried to clarify. “But, not in a super way, you know? Just, like…”

“We care about you in a tender way,” Logan said.

Virgil pointed at him and nodded. “That.”

The Damsel frowned at them, then shook his head. That couldn’t be possible. They couldn’t love him — that was one of his stupid impossible fantasies, haha, silly Roman! Always coming up with unachievable goals!

But Logan was smiling at him, and Virgil was smiling, and he KNEW they’d kissed earlier, and he’d thought that was a fluke. 

That also didn’t answer anything about Thomas. He still wasn’t reaching their dreams, creating new dreams, creating new content, CREATING, at an acceptable pace. Or in an acceptable manner. 

“I still need to be better for Thomas,” the Damsel croaked, “I’m not...enough. For him.”

“You are,” Patton promised, resting a hand on the Damsel’s shoulder, squeezing him comfortingly. “Thomas, were he here, would be the first to tell you he loves you.”

“You put a lot of effort into pushing others away,” Deceit stood beside Patton, resting a hand on the Damsel’s other shoulder, “Even the best parts of yourself. You need claim ownership of your virtues as well as your flaws.” 

“But the other parts of me don’t even like me,” the Damsel hissed, stepping away, more rough now, don’t break, don’t, “Do you—”

“Damsel,” the Thief cut in, “You’re a dumb motherfucker, alright, I’ll give you that.”

Oh, thank God. He was right. 

The Thief stood up, wiping his hands on themselves and fixing his cloak. He held onto the sides and watched the Damsel with a guarded expression as he moved closer. Stalking like a predator ready to kill. 

He stopped right in front of the Damsel, who cowered on instinct. Leave it to the Thief to finally kick him out!

“You’re dumb, and you fit right in ‘cause of it,” he continued with a fond grin.

What the fuck? The Damsel’s eye widened, and he opened his mouth to argue. 

Before he could, though, the Artist jumped in. He stood up, to Damsel’s left, with a dopey smile of his own. 

“You’re annoying, you’re a distraction, loud, boisterous, but you’ve gotta be,” he leaned in, grinning and jerking his thumb towards the others, “Someone’s gotta match up with Patton in his pun-offs. And everyone else in extra-ness.”

The Damsel turned red, lifting a finger. He was NOT–those meant nothing, they were childish, they were foolish, he was—

“We may not see eye to eye,” from his left, the Playwright wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and it felt like such a tremendous weight, “But I’ve heard than an eye for an eye will make the whole world blind. We don’t want to hurt you, cannot get rid of your flaws but also hope for your virtues.”

_ Virtues?! _

“Guys,” the Damsel finally said, trying desperately to keep his voice level, for fear of shouting or crying, “This is uncalled for—”

“Is it?” the Bard’s arms jutted out from behind the Damsel, wrapping him up in a loose (not constraining, not too tight, and for once it felt comfortable to be held). “We’re always so mean to ourselves! We may disagree on what’s best for Roman and Thomas, but at least we all want the best for both, right?”

The Damsel touched his hand lightly and squeezed his eye shut. 

Don’t cry. 

“We’re well worth it,” a clawed hand lifted the Damsel’s face, so he was looking eye to eye with the Dragon, “No more hurting ourselves. No more hurting Roman.”

The Damsel sniffed. 

If anything, he deserved some sort of punishment, something to cast him further out. They were all just….accepting him. This wasn’t right.

The other four Sides stood by, close to the stairs but also the group of Romans, all clustered together. It was unclear if they were still needed, if they were allowed to view the situation, or if standing here was a violation of privacy. But Virgil didn’t want any of them to get hurt. But Patton didn’t want to intrude. But Logan and Deceit were simply curious as to what would happen. 

They stayed, close enough to bolt, close enough to help. 

They’d stayed. Roman needed that. The Damsel focused back on the Dragon, then shook his head. 

None of them were going to mention all of the horrible — honestly, villainous things he’d done?

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispered. “I put you all through so much.”

He should have to pay at some level, they couldn’t just look past him. That wasn’t how this worked! He was ROMAN, he was always under critique, even by himself, so WHY were they refusing to do that?

The Dragon smiled weakly, but the Child’s voice from below caught the Damsel’s attention.

“Prince?” he asked.

He blinked back the burgeoning tears and looked down. The Child’s chin was resting on his stomach, and he greeted the Damsel with a warm smile. 

“I forgive you.”

_ Oh. _

And thus began the water works.

The Damsel sobbed quietly, leaning down and hugging the Child tight, beginning a chain reaction of all the Romans laughing, smiling, exhaling sharp happy huffs of breath, leaning forward in one motion as though it were meant to be. 

The Bard, last to join the pack, shouted “Group HUG!” before snuggling in. 

As they coalesced, the other four Sides watched from a distance, more at ease with the situation now that the Damsel wasn’t plotting to kill everyone. As they watched, though, the group stilled. 

Then turned red, but they glowed, bright as a sun. Red, gold, shimmeringly opaque, as what happened whenever any of them were kissed. The light bounced around so much that the others were sure it could be seen from the town — glowing like when the Artist and the Playwright fused. But their forms weren’t combining in the same way.

Logan fixed his glasses, watching in slight awe as his brain tried to make sense of what possible reason the red-ness and the glowing were occurring simultaneously. One would think that this sort of self-congratulatory display would lead to the fusion aspect of the Romans’ anatomy, but nothing of the sort was happening.

“About time,” Deceit murmured, “That was such an easy journey.”

Was that what it was, though, Logan wondered. 

Patton elbowed Deceit in the side. “He’ll take as long as he needs, okay?” Patton looked at the group, and a slightly distant look overtook his countenance. “Dealing with your emotions is never easy.”

Deceit’s scowl softened at that. He wrapped his arm around Patton’s waist, pulling him closer in an embrace as Patton rested his head on Deceit’s shoulder. 

“Well, what now?” Virgil mumbled, “Glad we’ve got all this settled. Now we’ve gotta figure out how to get outta here.”

“Fine, fine,” all four of them looked back at the pile of Romans, who were slowly untangling from each other.

The Damsel, in the center, still being held by the Bard, rubbed his working eye with the butt of his palm. He leaned to the side, shifting the weight off of his broken leg and leaning on the Dragon’s chest. “We….we should,” he spoke slow, eye still covered with his hand, as though he were forcing the words out. “Bring Roman. Back. Before I back out. ”

“You won’t,” the Bard promised, squeezing him again.

The Damsel laughed softly, leaning into his hug even more. “Oh, bet,” he whispered.

“Alright, alright,” the Thief leaned back, then sat on his bed, rubbing his jaw in thought, “Now that we’re committed to this, though….any of you know how to form Roman?”

Oh. 

“Wait,” Deceit stepped forward, scowling at all of the Romans one by one, “You don’t know?!”

With ever face, he was met with sheepish apology. The Playwright shrugged, shaking his head sadly. “In our defense, none of us thought that we would reach reconciliation.”

“I’m not sure how defendable that is,” Deceit groaned, throwing his arms up in frustration as he paced back to the Logan, Virgil, and Patton, “Wonderful, we don’t even know how to get back! Great news!”

“I mean, I thought we’d get back here!” the Bard jerked a thumb at himself, grinning wide.

He let go of the Damsel, kissing his cheek quickly, and moved closer to the other Sides to join the debate. As he did so, the Dragon wrapped his arm around the Damsel’s side.

“C’mon,” he mumbled, soft enough so just they could hear.

The Damsel frowned at him, unsure of what he meant.

“And?” the Artist asked, gesturing for the Bard to continue. Everyone else was holly oblivious to what was transpiring behind them.

“I thought the kissing thing would work, but that hug kinda proved otherwise!” the Bard shrugged, “I think I’m just a lil’ too dumb!”

“Regardless,” Logan cut in, literally putting his hand out in between the group, as though trying to console the Bard, “Of any intelligence levels, do any of you have a theory as to how we may reassemble you? If there is a hypothesis, we can move on to the testing phase and figure out, within reason, what works.”

The Romans all erupted into discussion, and the Damsel was immediately reminded of how much he hated thoughts. He rubbed his head, trying to stifle out the loud, erratic nature of himself. 

“I can carry you,” the Dragon whispered, holding the Damsel’s back carefully.

“Why? I’m okay, I can walk,” he responded.

As though to prove something, the Damsel pivoted and took a step forward. 

Yeah, no, it fucking hurt. He stumbled a little and leaned into the Dragon’s awaiting arms.

“Damnit.”

“Yeah, no, I’ll carry you. ‘S only fair, ‘cause I broke your leg.”

“Wait, wait,” the conversation continued without them as the Artist waved his hands, trying to silence the others, “Do we have to kiss?”

“Kiss who, ourselves?” the Playwright recoiled, hands curling to his chest in reprehension, “I’m sorry, you’re all ravishing royals, but I’d rather not kiss myself.”

“Plus, we did that whole group hug thing, and turned red and ghosty, but that did nothing,” the Thief pointed out.

“That is a logical argument. Perhaps the correlation between the different displays of affection are simply that those are times when you all come closest to recombining into Roman, but that is only one factor of a multifaceted solution,” Logan suggested, hand curling beneath his chin as he thought. 

The Child raised his hand and — in a fit of returning to his Teacher motif — Logan pointed to him. “Yes, Child?”

Behind them all, the Damsel pressed his face into the Dragon’s sash and winced. In a movement that felt wholly too natural, the Dragon looped his arm around the Damsel’s back, and lowered a bit. He picked him up in one swift movement, carrying him across his chest with soft hands.

The Damsel snuggled into his arms, half-closing his eye as he tried to get used to the body around him. “Thank you.”

“It is my honor!” the Dragon joked, kissing the Damsel’s head and bringing him back toward the group.

The Child lowered his hand and nearly shouted. “I’m not kissing ANY of you fuckers.”

Patton gasped, then patted him on the head gently. “Language!”

“No, no, he’s got a point,” the Thief said, “You couldn’t pay me to kiss any of you. ‘Cept you, Patt, and Logan, and Virgil, and Deceit.”

“Well, how’d you all break?” Virgil asked, rubbing his temples, voice finally re-found after swallowing the initial panic, “Maybe we can reverse whatever process that was?”

“Virgil’s right — that would make the most sense,” Logan said.

The Damsel frowned. Oh, they were arguing this. 

“I know what to do,” he said, loud and with enough conviction that the arguing ceased.

He was curled up in the Dragon’s chest, tight around himself as though he were shying away from his arms, but loose enough that he was at least pressed against his shoulder. The Damsel watched them with an expression that could be weirdly described as “noncommittally determined,” until he sighed, body loosening, and shook his head. 

“I keep forgetting you all don’t know these things,” he murmured, then said louder to the group, “We just need to talk to the Imagination about it.”

Deceit and Logan both frowned, filing that information away for later. Patton mouthed ‘wow,’ as though impressed. 

Virgil was just a BIT concerned, though. “You can just talk to it?” 

The Damsel nodded. “It’s a little sassy, and it’s not wholly sentient, but it knows things. I don’t control it. I merely direct it.” 

He looked at the other Romans, mouth pressed into a firm line, throwing one arm around the Dragon’s neck as he pulled himself up, closer to him and in a better position. They’d understand, in due time, now that they were on the same wavelength. 

“We can just talk to it?” the Dragon asked, blinking surprised at the Damsel, “You sure?”

“How do you think I asked it to disassemble us?” the Damsel smirked, then shrugged, “It knows better, sometimes, what has to be done. This was its idea, afterall.”

Alright, Deceit was going to ask about that later. Did the Imagination just immediately defer to splitting to solve identity issues? 

“What do we do?” the Child asked, holding onto the Dragon’s belt.

The Damsel glanced at him, then looked around the tree. 

Where were they to meet?

A crack of thunder rang from the storm outside, and he knew immediately. The Damsel pointed around the tree’s room, toward the door on the other side. 

“Balcony,” he whispered, and the Dragon nodded. 

He thought so. 

Slowly, each of the Romans perked up in understanding. It was like watching a phone go off or something, when everyone has the same ring tone. In that situation, everyone would have gone to check their phones. In this situation, everyone simply stood, turning to the balcony door and following after the Dragon. 

They were all working in sync. This was both great news and terrifying to watch, as they moved almost like a hivemind. 

“The balcony?” Virgil asked, frowning, “The storm’s still going, you’re all gonna get soaked.”

As if to punctuate his statement, another thundercrack sounded. Patton and Virgil both jumped, Patton going to grab the Artist’s hand. 

Logan stopped him, shaking his head. “Roman is most likely to know what to do,” he said, exhaling, “We don’t know enough about the Imagination’s methods to prove him wrong.” 

Patton frowned, worry dripping off his features. Still, he wrapped his arm around Deceit’s, and followed Virgil and Logan after the gaggle of Romans. 

Hesitantly, still not wholly convinced of this plan though he knew it was right, the Dragon opened one of the doors. They slammed open from the howling winds, and he flinched back.

“It knows,” the Damsel whispered. “I think it’s excited.”

All of the Romans nodded, and slowly filed out into the storm. 

The balcony itself was sort of large. There was enough space for everyone to comfortably stand. In better weather, it was likely that there would be a table and chairs set up, or a couch, or an awning. Or an easel and stool. Or a table and single chair to write at. Right now, though, there was nothing but space, which the Romans filled. 

The Child stood closest to the door, shifting on his feet. 

It was almost comforting. Their thoughts were returning to sync, motivations focused back on one task, but they hadn’t reunited just yet. 

“What’ll happen to us?” he asked, loud over the storm.

The Thief shrugged, turning to the Bard, who shook his head. “Do you….?” the Artist asked the Playwright, who then turned to the Dragon, who turned to the Damsel, who shrugged. 

“I don’t know. We won’t be….needed, anymore,” he looked over his shoulder at the Child, brow furrowed, “We’re going to be one person again.”

Wait. Patton jumped, as did Virgil, Logan, and Deceit. They hadn’t considered what might happen to the others when Roman returned. It was disconcerting, and Patton knew they’d  miss them if they were going to go. Fade off, die, duck out (quack) in their own Imaginative way. 

He’d grown attached, though. But he also wanted his Roman back! 

But also the thought of all the Romans…. _ dying _ …..?

“Wait, wait,” Virgil was the first, in front of the other Sides, standing in the doorway, “You’re all gonna disappear when Roman comes back?”

The Thief waved his hand in a negating manner. “He didn’t say that, he just said he didn’t know what’d happen. Besides, if it’ll bring Roman back?”

“That’s worth it,” the Playwright called out, lips pressed in a strained smile.

“Well worth it,” the Dragon agreed heartily, smiling out at their kingdom.

He shifted the Damsel in his arms and looked up at the cloud, where the Damsel was already looking. 

The other Sides were hesitant to step out into the rain. All of the Romans had gotten soaked through fast, though none of them shivered. Virgil, however, could very much feel the cold wind whipping through his hoodie. He zipped up the front. 

Deceit pulled his own half-cloak over himself more, bundling into its warmth to stay awake as he stepped around Virgil and out onto the balcony. Behind him, Patton was putting on his cardigan, and Logan had grabbed one of the bed’s blankets. They were all getting wet. 

He turned, looking up at the sky. All of the Romans were watching now. It must be important.

Holy fuck. 

“You,” Deceit breathed.

Patton shuffled forward, and Deceit threw out his hand in front of the other three, stopping everyone from approaching. The cloud above them was swirling, following after one figure who Deceit recognized very much from their first encounter in Roman’s room. It was the cloud person. 

Lightning shot from its back as it descended onto the balcony, in front of the Damsel and the Dragon and all of the Romans. The cloud turned to Deceit, not speaking (perhaps it couldn’t) but tilting its head in some form of recognition. Deceit didn’t want to think of how it may have seen him on that first day, despite him not making himself evident. The Imagination was a truly terrifying train of thought. 

The seven Romans clung to each other, the Dragon carrying the Damsel forward, the Child holding the Playwright and the Bard’s hands, whose arm was looped around the Thief’s. On the Playwright’s other side was the Artist, hands intertwined, all standing just behind the Dragon. They were like a unit.

The Damsel reached out a hand, and they all heard him chuckle lightly. 

“I think I’ve learned my lesson, old friend,” he said. 

The cloud swirled above them, and the figure floated forward, toward the Romans.

Deceit put his other hand on his hat to keep it from flying away in the wind.

Thunder cracked from behind its back as lightning shot outward. Virgil jumped, swearing quietly and pulling his hoodie even tighter around himself. Despite the rain, it felt so good to have his regular hoodie back. Especially now that everything was going to shit. 

He looked up and saw — was the cloud whatever kissing the Damsel? It had to be, it was leaning down into him. 

“Should we keep it from Roman?” Virgil hissed, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I don’t like it. What if it does something?”

“I don’t know,” Logan admitted, looking at Deceit before the Romans and clouds in front of them, “None of them seem afraid.”

Maybe they didn’t know to be afraid, Virgil thought darkly. 

Before any of them could act, though, a large gust of wind pushed them back. Patton caught Deceit just as they slammed against the tree’s wall.

The cloud figure stood upright, looking at the Dragon with a blank face. The Dragon smiled back, all of the Romans making the same, welcoming expression.

They were ready. 

In one blow, the cloud figure’s arms extended, then dispersed into thick clouds themselves, enclosing all of the Romans in its embrace.

“ROMAN!” Virgil shouted, climbing to his feet against the blowing winds.

“Virgil,” Deceit snapped, grabbing his hoodie and yanking him down, “Don’t interrupt, damnit!”

“What if it hurts him?” he shot back, holding a glare steady with Deceit. It was a rational fear, the cloud already had before. 

Whatever response he had was interrupted by the thunder, lightning, and simple bright lights that seemed to shoot through the cloud. They all jumped, looking to see the cloud shimmering so bright they couldn’t stand to look at it any longer. 

The light grew, out of the cloud, enveloping the scenery.

Enveloping all of them. 

“Shield your eyes!” Logan called out, covering his own with his arm. 

Everyone followed suit, in some capacity. 

While they weren’t looking, though, the ground disappeared. And, finally, they fell.

 


	28. a dream is a wish your heart makes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: scars, past pain — i think that's it, cause this is mostly fluff ("""""mostly""""" is like 99.9%) but if i forgot anything please let me know! 
> 
> we're finally here folks. thank you all so so so much for coming with me on this journey <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 i hope you enjoy! 
> 
> also note that the end note's changed, and see that for a more comprehensive explanation of What's Next™

The Imagination was not a gentle creature. It was a space, similar to the Mind Palace, the Subconscious, every other nook and cranny of Thomas’ mind. It acted of its own accord. 

It just so happened to be best friends with the two biggest drama queens in the whole of Thomas’ psyche, and it was a little tired of their tantrums. So it was no wonder that the Imagination dropped all of the Sides onto a pile in Roman’s room, unconscious and a little bruised from the long fall. 

Yes, indeed, Roman’s room.

Virgil was the first to awaken. He sat up immediately, rubbing the tiredness out of his eyes and looking around as he willed himself into alert-ness. 

Admittedly, he hadn’t been in Roman’s room very many times in the past, and every time it looked different. But the King sized canopy bed, the fairy lights, and the overcrowded desk with a pinboard of photos all screamed bedroom for one singular Good Creativity, not just a facet of such. He looked around further and saw a window, outside of which was a very familiar castle, though shrouded slightly in light clouds. 

They were home. 

“Virgil?” Logan was sitting up now, too, and Deceit was pushing himself up, “It appears that we have returned.”

He nodded, and opened his mouth to follow up, but was cut off by Patton’s squealing. 

“ROMAN!” 

_ ROMAN _ ?!

Everyone looked just in time to see Patton full-body tackle the one and only Prince Roman, who had just begun waking up on the ground himself. He wore his usual white uniform, red sash across his torso, and a large dazzling grin as he looped his arms around Patton’s waist and snuggled his face into his neck.

God, Logan, Virgil, and Deceit all thought in unison, I’m doomed and in love. 

“YOU’RE BACK!” Patton yelled, wiggling into Roman’s hold, “You’re BACK and I LOVE you!” 

Ah, yes. There was also that. 

Roman laughed, kissing Patton’s cheek, then his temple, then his forehead, then the bridge of his nose. He finally rested his forehead against Patton’s and smiled, bright and excited and finally together again. 

“I’m back, sunlight” he whispered. 

Patton giggled, just as happy, and kissed his lips quickly. As though to prove that he was a Side again, Roman kissed back, and he stayed Roman. Their Roman.

Before any of the other three could comment on not wanting to intrude (believe me, they were thinking it), Roman threw out one of his hands and pulled away from Patton, motioning for the next closest person: Logan. “My starshine,” he breathed, hand opening and closing, asking for him to come closer. 

Now, Logan wasn’t much of a quote hugger unquote.

But….he removed his glasses, wiping something that definitely wasn’t a tear from his eyes, and leaned in. Carefully, he slid an arm between Roman’s back and the ground, and rested his head on Roman’s shoulder. 

Roman laughed, grabbing Patton with one arm as he rolled over to hug Logan tighter. He kissed his forehead, burrowing his face into Logan’s hair. And, for once, Logan didn’t find himself minding the frivolous display of affection. 

“Welcome home, Roman,” he said. 

Their eyes met, soft smiles while Roman’s fingers grasped the back of Logan’s shirt. He tugged him in, closer, and pressed a kiss to Logan’s chin. Logan used the chance to carefully kiss Roman’s nose, then roll away just enough so he could use his other hand and invite Virgil and Deceit in. 

Deceit, ever the opportunist, immediately dove in. Roman laughed, pressing a kiss to his head and withdrawing his arm from Patton so he could remove Deceit’s hat and place it on the floor. Then, he ran his hand through Deceit’s hair, cupped the back of his head, and kissed his lips ever so gently. Deceit pulled back, examining Roman’s face up close with a small smirk, and kissed the scar that dashed across his cheek. 

He didn’t exchange any words, nor say anything else. Slowly, Deceit curled up against Roman’s chest, hands wrapped up in and gripping his sash, back resting on Logan’s chest.

It felt almost natural. 

Virgil’s shoulders were quite tense, watching it all. He couldn’t tell if he was actually supposed to be apprehensive, or if that was just in his nature. 

“Virgil, Nightingale,” Roman motioned for him to join the pile, “Please.”

Well. Virgil’s cheeks flushed a little, but he snuck in, laying beside Patton and resting his head on Roman’s shoulder. If Roman was gonna insist….

Roman pressed a kiss to his head, and placed one of his hands on Virgil’s back. It was almost like a sandwich, Patton and Deceit both laying on his chest, arms wrapped around Logan and Virgil as he managed to hold everyone. They fit together like jigsaw pieces. 

Roman closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the carpet. God, speaking of fitting together like a jigsaw.

“That was quite the quest,” he hummed, the slimmest of smiles on his lips.

It felt so good to be whole. Of course the Prince had felt like shit. All of his self confidence was stuffed into different forms of himself. And his intelligence was also separated and sequestered off into different individuals, as was his creative mindset, as was his fighting skills. He needed all of it to function. He needed every part of himself, and he damn LOVED every part of himself. He was the best Prince anyone could have ever conjured!

It felt so good to be whole again. He paused, mentally sifting through the chaos of what had been the past few days. A week, according to him, but he knew that time count wasn’t realistic. He’d have to take a break — he couldn’t, there was a video coming up, but he could definitely find time to cuddle up against one of his new….

One of his new boyfriends? Was that what they were, now? 

Virgil was certainly nervous about it. He wanted to know, stat. 

“Did you mean it, when you said you loved me?” Virgil asked, lips brushing Roman’s ear and drawing him back to reality, “All of you, did you–what are we?”

Logan took his glasses off, setting them beside Deceit’s hat so he wouldn’t damage them in this floor pile. Maybe he could just explain, because really, Virgil should know what they were by now.

“Virgil, I do not know how you forgot this, but we are metaphysical human beings, and we each represent facets of Thomas’ mentality.”

Deceit snickered quietly, muffling himself against Roman’s chest as Virgil sighed. He didn’t want to deal with these shenanigans, not when it was serious talk time. “You know what I mean, Lo.”

Logan sighed. He did know what Virgil meant, but was it truly such a time to be confronting his……………………….emotions. He rubbed his face, then rested once again on the ground. 

Everyone seemed reluctant to begin this conversation. In his defense, Roman was still trying to get his mind in order and sift through the different memories from all seven — SEVEN — of the “him”s. He was laying back on the ground, eyes half-lidded as he zoned out only a tiny bit. Virgil curled up even more against Patton’s back, eyes darting between all of them, all of the parts of their faces that he could see. It wasn’t like he had a great vantage. 

Deceit and Logan were both watching different parts of Roman’s uniform with intense scrutiny, avoiding eye contact and avoiding thinking of the topic. Close emotions weren’t exactly either of their fortés, and neither knew what to say in this situation. 

So Patton began. “I can’t tell you how you all feel, that’s something you need to know yourself,” he took a deep breath and smiled at Deceit’s chest, where he was looking, “I just know I love all of you. And I’d love to just be with you all.”

Virgil nodded. 

That gave him the courage to pipe up. “Same,” his face was bright red as he hid it in Patton’s hair, “Same. I love you guys.”

Logan exhaled, then said, “I agree. I believe the feeling I have been experiencing is love.”

“Didn’t we all, at some point, make out?” Deceit mumbled, “Isn’t that enough of an answer?”

“A little clarity never hurt anyone,” Patton repeated, careful and soft.

That was fair. Deceit slumped, closing his eyes and pressing against Patton’s side. This would all take a bit of time to get used to, especially after such a long time of slinking around in the darkness. With Logan’s arm around his waist, though, and Roman beneath him, Patton’s other arm around his shoulders, Deceit knew he’d get used to it. He opened one eye up at Virgil, looking at him with a kinder stare than had been in a while. 

Yeah. They could all get used to this. 

They all were enjoying this. 

“I have dreamt of this,” all four of them looked up at Roman, whose eyes were now closed, head resting against the floor with a small smile, “For so long.” 

“Well, Princey, I guess dreams do come true,” Virgil joked. Then, hesitating once before simply going for it, he kissed Roman’s chin. 

Patton took that as an invitation and kissed Roman’s cheek again, pressing his nose to his cheek, and Roman’s smile widened. 

His heart felt nearly seven times as much love. Which was a lot, considering how deeply in love, how much he yearned for this touch, for this reciprocation, just days prior. Roman squeezed his arms, pulling everyone even closer to himself, and laughed. 

It was so nice. To feel so carefree. To get to give out this love. 

God, it was intoxicating. 

Logan pressed a quick kiss to Roman’s cheek, then resting his hand on Deceit’s back. “As much as I wish to continue this embrace, I recommend we move up to the bed,” he said. 

“You know, I agree,” Deceit said, patting Roman’s chest, “This can’t be good for your back.” 

Come to mention it, every part of Roman was sore. His leg still had a tingle in it, and he kept blinking his eye. And everyone else, as they sat up, stood up, stretched, found that their own muscles were quite tender from the three days of running around, sword fighting, and mild panics. It seemed only rational, then, that they’d spend the day not doing anything too strenuous. 

That was what Logan decreed, and Patton readily agreed, fluffing up Roman’s pillows so they could lay together. Which is what they did. 

A few conjures of pajamas and stuffed animals later, and they were all snuggled in the bed, entangled hands and arms and legs wrapped around each other, keeping one another close enough to satiate the longing that had long sat in their stomachs. The Imagination was gentle with them, understanding how much this was desired, and so when Roman moved to make the setting night it obliged. A soft moonlight streamed into the bedroom despite Logan’s assurance that it was only, like, 8 p.m. 

They wanted it to be night, though, so they could simply rest in each others presence. A newly established love, but one that already felt so familiar. None of them wanted to move. 

“I love you,” Roman whispered, to all of them, no one in particular, “I adore you. You all have been my dream for so long.”

There was a snicker somewhere, one of the hands on his waist gripping tighter as Virgil, behind him, breathed back. “We’re all fucking saps.”

“Hey, language,” Patton joked from where he was spooning Virgil.

He pressed a kiss into the nape of Virgil’s neck and squeezed his arms around his waist more, leg drawing up to cradle him. “This is great,” Patton’s voice was already heavy, ready to sleep, “Let’s just not do work until tomorrow.”

“None of usss want  _ that _ ,” Deceit’s tongue flicked out as he drawled, also already sleepy. 

He nestled his nose against Logan’s hair, who smiled and squeezed Deceit’s wrist. “I think we have earned a rest,” Logan whispered. 

Roman turned his head slightly to the left, nose brushing against Logan’s as they looked at each other. Logan’s eyes squinted fondly and he pecked Roman’s forehead gently. “Sleep, my prince,” he whispered into his hair. 

And, you know, Roman got pretty close. He almost fell asleep! They laid there for about twenty minutes, pulling, tugging, grasping, hugging, soft breaths in the quiet, darkened room. 

Deceit woke them all up. 

He hissed, sitting upright and looking around wildly. “Deceit?” Virgil asked, sitting up with him. 

“What the—” and then Deceit disappeared abruptly, a look of confusion still on his face. 

Everyone was a little too stunned to react, starring straight at the spot where Deceit disappeared. What the fuck just happened? Did the Imagination take him? Could it even  _ do _  that? Roman knew it couldn’t, but well, what the fuck?

Logan raised a finger, then an eyebrow. “Oh, he was summoned,” he said, then sank down. 

Ah. Yeah, the others tended to not sink. 

Oh. Oh, fuck, that’s right,  _ Thomas _ . Thomas was a thing. 

Patton sank down with a yelp, Virgil close behind as he disappeared in a poof. Thomas was undoubtedly very confused as to what had been happening over these past few days. They probably couldn’t tell him that, you know, the quintet were all in a newly established romantic relationship. But maybe Roman could take the time to apologize. 

Because he wasn’t asinine. His dreams weren’t stupid, his contributions were important, and by God, he….was a good Prince. He did do his best. And if he loved himself like this — Roman wrapped his arms around himself — then he knew Thomas loved him, too. No more berating himself. No more being his own villain. 

He loved himself. He loved his lovers. 

And he loved his charge. He did actually miss Thomas, after the Imaginary fiasco. So, when he felt the tell tale tug on his back, Roman let himself be pulled graciously.

It was his honor to be Thomas’ trusted, grandiose, lovely, chivalrous Prince. Roman didn’t want to be anything else. 


	29. EPILOGUE: anything vine can do, you can do better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: exhaustion/collapse, scar mention — if i missed anything, please let me know !!!! 
> 
> this was so so so soft, and i hope i channeled an actual sides episode asldkghadflkghalsdfk
> 
> love you all so so much <3

You know what? Now that Thomas could just randomly think clearly?

He didn’t give a  _ fuck _  what the rationale was for that three day debacle. He walked into five walls, added approximately six words to the video script (ideas partially due by Sunday, mind you), and had thought absolutely no coherent thoughts for the past few days and there was nothing the Sides could tell him that would validate the discombobulated disaster he’d been living. 

“Oh, they’re so in for it. I’m doing peachy,” Thomas said to himself, watching the water boil for the pasta, “Just grand.”

His shoulders slumped, and he leaned his head against one of his kitchen cabinets. At least he had the working brain cells to get up and cook a real meal today; he’d been eating instant meals and pizza for the past few days. Even Hello Fresh™ seemed too hard to make. 

But, no, it was fine. All fine. He was cooking now, and it was all going to be….

Hold the phone. 

Thomas straightened up, frowning at his stove. Was he  _ lying _  to himself?

Didn’t that mean Deceit was back in business?

Holy shit. Deceit was back. Immediately, he stood upright, looking around at the living room. He could summon him. He could summon Deceit, ask where the others were, Thomas had to know what happened; did he even have the power to summon Deceit? He’d never tried it. 

Well, first time for everything. Thomas puffed up his cheeks and reached out with his hand, focusing on his ability to deceive. Then, he pulled up. “Deceit?”

What he didn’t expect was for Deceit to appear in yellow silk pajamas with little black snakes printed on it, a sleep mask sitting half over his left eye. The Side was in the middle of saying something, because as soon as he appeared he screamed “—FUCK?”

“Language,” Thomas said on instinct, frowning at Deceit, “Are you in your pajamas?”

Deceit pointed at him, brow creasing in growing confusion and worry. Of course. Of course, they’d forgotten that Thomas probably had things he wanted to do at 8 p.m. Agh, drats, and now his boyfr — okay, great, now he had to with hold that information from Thomas, too. Splendid. 

“Yes, I am,” he said, conjuring his gloves before Thomas can notice the scales and claws, tugging at their bottoms until they’re on just snug enough, “What a pleasantry, too, to be called upon in your time of need. Such a common occurrence.”

Thomas squinted, leaning back a little. Sure, he was a liar, it was a habit he had, but that didn’t mean he had to LIKE Deceit. It felt wrong to dislike parts of himself but….

He imagined Remus’ devilish laugh and shuddered. Nope, no, it was okay to dislike parts of himself. 

“Aaaalright,” he pursed his lips, thinking of how to best phrase why he called Deceit up, “Where….have you been, for the past, oh, ya know, three days?”

It was Deceit’s turn to squint, because he was fully aware that Thomas didn’t like him. At this point, he was starting to resent how much he cared about the dumbass but, you know what? It was fine. This weird animosity? Fine. All fine. 

He had a job to do, and he was going to do it. That didn’t mean he had to be helpful, though. Plus, Roman would likely not like Thomas finding out about his identity dilemma. That sealed the deal in Deceit’s mind, so he checked the nails of his gloves and leaned on the kitchen’s doorframe. Time for the fun parts. “I haven’t the faintest idea of what you mean,” he said with a smirk.

“How do you not know what I’m talking about. Were you like, asleep or something, for the past three days?” Thomas ran his hands through his hair, looking as confused as he rightfully deserved, damnit. “What happened?”

“I’m never sleeping on the job, Thomas, I promise you that,” Deceit smiled even more as Thomas threw his hands up in frustration.

The funniest part of this situation was how Thomas summoned  _ him _  for information. Like, what part of the name ‘Deceit’ implied he’d give a straight answer?

That’s the exact logical thought that Thomas had when he snapped his fingers and pointed at Deceit. “Wait. Wait,” he grinned, and Deceit raised an eyebrow, “Wait. I’m thinking logically. I can get….”

He reached down and yanked. “Logan!”

Logan zipped up to his left, in the middle of crossing his arms, as though he’d expected to be summoned. He nodded curtly to Deceit, who rolled his eyes, and turned to Thomas. It was like clocking into a job for him where part of that job was to pretend he hadn’t just been spooning the villain beside him. “Hello, Thomas. What seems to be the issue?”

Finally, maybe he’d get some answers. It wasn’t as if he was not also angry with Logan. He was angry with all of them, because for some reason that Deceit wasn’t willing to share, they’d all just. Vanished. He had every right to be mad. And he was CERTAIN that was what’d caused it! What else could it have been?!

“The issue is that for the past three days,” Thomas held up three fingers for emphasis, “I haven’t felt any of your effects. Yours, Pattons, Virge, anyone! The script’s due in just a few days and—”

“Ah, yes, we’ve been having an internal issue,” Deceit’s eyes snapped to Logan, warning him silently to not continue but, “As of now, it has been dealt with, and your production schedule will be able to continue at normal. Perhaps a delay of one day might be beneficial.”

“Yes,” he hummed, trying to stress covertly to Logan to _n_ _ ot _  pursue this topic further, “But the main thing is that the issue has been resolved. I don’t know if there’s much to be concerned about anymore.”

Logan’s brow creased. There were certainly many concerns to be had. He wasn’t one to mislead, and it felt fairly important to be open with Thomas about all topics, so the concept of Thomas’ Hopes and Dreams falling apart seemed to be something that should be aware about.

Thomas also expected transparency from him, more so than from Deceit, so Thomas immediately turned to Logan after that statement. It wasn’t like Logan had much of a choice. 

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Logan watched as Deceit’s nose scrunched, and he made a hand covering motion. Logan’s hand didn’t move in response, but, well. The threat was fairly clear. 

“Yes, Thomas hearing about his underlying identity struggles will do wonders for his pride,” Deceit put heavy emphasis on the word pride — Roman would most certainly drop dead if Thomas found out, and Deceit didn’t want to hurt him anymore than he had been.

“Speaking of pride, though, I’ve definitely been feeling like hell these past few days,” Thomas said, “Please, Logan, I just wanna know what’s up.”

“Well….”

Deceit scowled. He wouldn’t. That’d just complicate lying to Thomas.

Logan smiled apologetically. Oh my God. He would. That bastard.

“We shouldn’t exclude the, ah, other parties involved. Patton? Virgil?”

Patton and Virgil both appeared, Patton rising up to Thomas’ right, beside the stove while Virgil appears squatting on top of the counter. He shifted, grumbling while he sat, and shot Logan a small scowl before turning to Thomas. Deceit rubbed the bridge of his nose and lifted the rest of his sleep mask so he could see the chaos with both eyes.

“Hey Thomas,” Virgil waved.

“Virgil. Patton,” Thomas’ hands slowly ran through his hair while he smiled at the two, genuinely relieved to see them all okay, “I love you. I love all of you, really, but,” and then he stopped, lips pursing in a slight scold, “I had things I had to do this weekend. I completely missed on dinner a few nights ago, I have a script due Sunday. What’s been happening?”

“What do you mean?” Patton asked, though his eyes went a little too wide for him to be fully ignorant of what was happening. 

“I mean, I couldn’t feel any of you for a whole three days. I was worried you all clocked out. I’ve just had Disney songs stuck in my head!” everyone made some sort of face, exasperated and tense, “Absolutely zoned out, graceless as all get out—”

“W-Well,” Patton cleared his throat and caught Thomas’ attention, drawing him out of his rant, “You know, they say it takes three days grace!”

Virgil and Deceit both winced, then shot Patton a confused look. That was both not his best work, and a double pun. 

Patton shrugged. They could see the vague panic growing on his face. What could he say? He wasn’t the best at lying POINT BLANK like this! And if he’d let Thomas keep running, he mighta called up Roman! 

Logan watched their face journeys with a single raised eyebrow before he turned to Thomas with a report on his tongue. “The most concise explanation, without going into the specifics, is that we had a small breakdown on a subconscious level and, instead of letting it fester into a negatively consequential issue, we took action and dealt with it in a timely manner.”

“The timely part is up for debate,” Deceit made a moving on motion with his hand, as though to dismiss Thomas’ concerns, “In any case, the situation has been finely dealt with.”

Thomas opened his mouth, then closed it again, pointing vaguely to Deceit. That sounded like something he’d want to believe, but he wasn’t sure he could. Not when something that drastic had happened. And he just didn’t like all these vague answers he was getting. 

Maybe Roman would answer some of these questions? Why hadn’t Logan called Roman, anyway?

“I”m not sure I believe that,” Thomas shrugged, “I’ll summon Roman, how about.”

And there it was. Logan sighed, while Patton squeaked. Virgil sat upright while Deceit raised his hand to draw Thomas’ attention to him, facade not at all broken. Of course he was going to ask at some point.

“I don’t know if I would,” Deceit’s voice was level, rolling his eyes as he added, “A looming video script deadline? Roman’s  _ totally _  not stressed. He’s peachy keen.”

Thomas’ hand still floated to his right side, ready to summon, until Virgil interrupted him. 

“I hate to agree with Deceit _ , _ ” Deceit had to remind himself that Virgil, too, was lying, just acting, just so Thomas wouldn’t be confused, because that enunciation was very pointed, “But I’d let Princey rest. I don’t think it’d be very fair to call him out.”

The speed at which Virgil tried to cover and the….weird way he stressed Deceit’s name indicated, at least to Thomas, that he was nervous about Roman. Virgil pulled his hoodie’s hood closer to himself, shifting uncomfortably under Thomas’ confused gaze. “He’s also not feeling well, since he’s been on the grinder.”

“Yeah!” Patton clapped, voice the slightest level of shrill as he tried to add on, to help Virgil from getting more anxious. “And you know what we said about working too hard! We wouldn’t want Roman falling apart or anything!”

What followed that statement had to be the most awkward pause in all of Thomas’ conversations with the Sides. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with that statement, but now Deceit, Logan, and Virgil were all peering at Patton with the most scandalized, disapproving expressions. Even Patton seemed sheepish as his arms drew back in to shrug, a small grin on his face. “Pun, for once, not intended?”

Thomas frowned at them, confused by the sudden stop, and waved his hands. It’s clear that something was wrong with Roman, then, and while he usually wouldn’t want to bother him, he wants to make sure that he’s alright.

So he pointed to the space between Logan and Deceit and lifted his hand, calling out, “Roman?” 

Said Side rose up where Thomas is pointing and he could immediately understand the others’ hesitancy. The usually pristine Prince’s hair is a tousled mess, there were clear bags beneath his eyes, he too was in his pajamas, and as soon as he arose, Roman collapsed upon an attempt to stand on his legs. Logan dove after him, grasping his chest and holding him upright.

Thomas folded his hands over his chest, making a face of worry as he instinctively recoiled. Whatever happened in there must have absolutely wrecked his Creativity, huh. Holy shit, as that a scar on his cheek?

“Roman, is that—?” it must have been a trick of the light, because as soon as Logan helped Roman up, the scar Thomas thought he saw was gone. 

Logan whispered something, lifting Roman with one arm around his waist and another holding his arm around Logan’s shoulders. Carefully, he helped Roman climb onto the counter, and Roman patted Logan’s shoulder as he did so. As his arm slipped off, Roman shifted, sitting upright the best he could. 

God, his muscles were so tense. He was fighting every urge to tremble under the utter exhaustion — he knew his summons would come, but damn, did the real world really sap the life out of him sometimes. 

But! It was his lord! It was Thomas! And he was okay!

That in and of itself filled Roman with the strength to continue.

“Thomas!” Roman clapped once, smiling broadly, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Thomas, on the other hand, was incredibly worried. He held a hand out cautiously toward Roman. “Are you alright? You just, like, collapsed.”

“Ah, you’ve never caught me laying down. It’s quite the shift,” there was something true to Roman’s statement, at least, and it almost explained away the pajamas. Deceit was kinda impressed he still had the energy to weave a story.

The others all looked at him, trading glances between Thomas’ gaze. Roman sat on top of his hands, banning himself from gestures but making sure Thomas wouldn’t see how hard his hands were shaking. They could get through just one teensy weensy conversation like this, right?

“Oh, uh sorry,” Thomas thought that made sense. Especially considering they were all in their pajamas. But now he felt a little awkward with continuing. The anger from earlier was definitely simmering into something more akin to guilt, as he saw them all clearly tired, clearly trying to rest after  _ something _ . “Yeah, um. Sorry to bother you all when you’re, uh, sleeping? Everyone was kinda implying that you were hurt or something.”

Oof. Patton winced, then shared a look with Virgil, who was also quite tense. Had they been that obvious?

Logan rolled his eyes and glanced at the stove. Hm. His couscous was nearly done. Logan stepped a little closer to the stove and began finishing up Thomas’ cooking for him while he stared down Roman.

Who didn’t seem to want to disclose any information, either. Roman shifted his legs, kicking them out a little. “That’s fair. It’s been a very tiresome week.”

“Week?”

“I mean,” Roman tried to fix his mistake, but then frowned, asking in a soft voice, “Wait, how many days has it been?”

The other four shared a look, concerned for their prince. He’d been reassembled yes, but he was still clearly worn to the bone. Hopefully Thomas would be sated soon….

“Roman has been dealing with the issue for a while. Production came to a standstill as the rest of us discovered an entanglement of internal problems, and we assisted Roman in overcoming them,” Logan said, turning back to Thomas first.

“So it was like, a teamwork thing?” Teamwork? Thomas hadn’t pegged the Sides as people who could work together, but he was elated to hear that they were! “What kind of issue was it?”

Surprisingly, Deceit answered, voice barely audible while his hands rubbed against each other. He hadn’t had his gloves earlier, until he was summoned. He kind of liked having them off. It felt like he was naked, what with the metaphor and all, but it had been nice to trust someone.

“Are you ready to know?” 

“What?” Thomas squinted at Deceit, confused more than distrusting, “What’s that supposed to mean.”

“Well, kiddo,” Patton took a deep breath as Thomas now turned to him, “I think he’s implying that you don’t want to confront the problems just yet. Maybe sometime soon, but just because we know there’s a problem doesn’t mean you’re aware of it ju~ust yet.”

Deceit shot Patton a small, grateful look while Thomas continued to question. “But if they’re things that are affecting my mentality, then shouldn’t I be made aware of it?”

“If problems could be solved just by being told that they exist, then there’d be less problems in the world,” Logan said, stirring the wooden spoon around as he confirmed everything was cooked to perfection. “Besides, the worst may have passed, may have yet to pass, even. It’s still a work in progress. Part of working through it will likely be your….eventual acceptance. At the moment, Deceit seems to be postulating that you are unequip to handle the issue and its fallout currently.” 

Huh. Thomas glanced at Logan, who had confirmed the couscous' completion and was moving it onto a plate. That made an eerie amount of sense, all things considered. He probably wouldn’t be too receptive to the Sides if it was a problem he wasn’t ready to face, either. 

Was Logan suggesting he wasn’t in the space to handle his emotions?

Since when was Logan in touch with emotions as a concept?

It might have been part of the problem, a part of Thomas’ brain told him. Don’t push it too hard. Wouldn’t wanna hurt him. He didn’t want to hurt any of them.

“Fair enough,” Virgil finished with a smirk, which quickly turned to a frown. He had a reputation to uphold. 

Luckily, Thomas didn’t see it. “So, uh….everything’s gonna be moving forward as normal from here on out?”

“Life is likely to continue normally for you, yes. We will capitalize productivity on the one day delay you and the rest of the writing team has agreed upon, and we will assist you in,” Logan put down the pan and took out his notecards, flipping through a little until he found the one he wanted, “‘Cranking out’ more productive material on the script tomorrow before your writing session with Joan.”

“And hopefully,” Patton said, leaning against Virgil’s leg, who patted his head with one hand, “Things’ll start feeling better in no time.”

They were honestly already starting to feel better. Thomas smiled at him, then nodded. “Alright,” he clapped, “That sounds, uh. Okay.”

“Delightful,” Deceit rested his head on the top of his hand, smiling thinly at Thomas, “Does that mean I can get back to my beauty sleep?”

“Like you need it,” Virgil mumbled, just quiet enough that Patton beside him snickered and no one else heard. 

“Yeah, of course. I’m sorry again for bothering y’all,” Thomas rubbed the back of his neck, then jumped as a thought crossed his mind, “Wait.”

He pointed to Deceit, who then pointed to himself. 

Could it be?

“Did you….help? With things?”

Everyone else looked at Deceit, whose eyes widened. What a pointblank question. Not unlike one Deceit had been asking himself as of late, to be frank. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t find an adequate answer. Did he help? Was he...good? 

It was Roman, actually, who spoke up. “More than you can imagine,” he said, nudging Thomas’ side with his foot, “Lie Cooper can be pretty soft when you get past the scales.”

Virgil nodded as well. “He did great,” Thomas raised an eyebrow at him, and he put his hands up, “Telling you to calm down would be hypocritical, but...he’s….okay.”

Thomas laughed at that one, a few snickers as he looked back at Deceit with a blank expression and faded smile, both equally taken aback by the news. “Alright. Okay, uh,” he nodded, and Deceit could swear he heard his blood pumping in his ears. By God, was this what approval felt like? He was so stressed. “Thanks for your help, Deceit.”

He was at a loss for words for a few moments, hands rubbing against each other. “It is my pleasure, Thomas.”

They were both still, until Thomas gave him a tiny smile. If Deceit wasn’t going to be a drawback, and if he’d decided to work WITH them, then….why not? “I’m glad to have you on board,” he leaned forward and patted Deceit’s arm, “Get some good sleep, okay? That goes to all of you, you all look kinda dead, and we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“You got it, boss,” Virgil mock-saluted him, then sank back down off of the counter and into the Mindscape.

“Any time you need anything, too, Thomas, just let us know!” Patton said, giving him two thumbs up, “We’re here for you, kiddo.”

“Of course, a warning would be courteous,” Logan added.

“But we’ll still be here for you!” Patton grinned, and they both sank down slowly. 

“Thanks,” Thomas matched his smile and, once they had all disappeared, turned to Deceit and Roman.

Roman was already half asleep, leaning on his cupboard, and Thomas kinda felt bad. What issues might have been plaguing him? It likely had something to do with his ego. That had to be it, right? What might it have been? He wracked his brain to figure out something in the recent past that may have dislodged his self-esteem so much that it’d rattle Roman like this. 

“Thomas.”

He turned to Deceit, brows still pinched in ghost-worry. Deceit smiled tensely, worried about the….unexpected amount of support he got earlier. A lot had changed in three simple days, eh?

“How are you feeling for the future?” he asked, as gently as he could.

Thomas ran his hands through his hair, giving Roman a side glance. “Well….truth be told,” Deceit scoffed quietly, and Thomas grinned, “I’m a little worried. About Princey over here,” his name garnered no reaction from the Prince, “But other than that, I’m glad to have you all back. Real glad. We’re gonna get some good work done tomorrow, I know it.”

Deceit nodded, still fiddling with his hands. At least Thomas wasn’t feeling any negative repercussions from their little excursion into the Imagination. 

“And, uh. Thanks again, Deceit. It’s good to have you working with us.”

Deceit didn’t say anything still, but the way his eyes creased, the way he watched with a small, fond smile, Thomas knew his happiness was reciprocated. And Deceit sank down silently. 

Now, the most tired. “Roman?” 

That got him to stir. Roman blinked, lifting one hand to rub his eye as he tried to smile broadly once again for his charge. “Yes, Thomas?”

He looked so, so tired. Thomas grimaced in an attempt to meet Roman’s smile, but then sighed. He didn’t know how to best approach this topic, but….“I don’t know what happened. But I don’t need to know the whole story to know that you’re having a rough time right now. And I just want you to know that I’m here to help, too, okay?”

His honesty and support took Roman by surprise. He leaned back a little, then tilted his head. 

“That’s a lovely sentiment, Thomas,” Roman didn’t meet his eyes, watching Thomas’ chest instead as disbelief pooled in his chest as strong as his adoration, that self-loathing and insecurity rearing its head once more in his mind. “Thank you—”

“It isn’t just sentiment,” Thomas pursed his lips and gestured with both hands, rolling them forward as he tried to explain how grateful, how important, how dear all of them were to him. Because it was a weird feeling. “I know you all keep me moving and stuff, but you all take care of me. I wanna do the same, sometimes, okay?”

“Thomas—” he cut Roman off once more, because he WANTED him to understand. Thomas NEEDED him. 

“You do a lot. Thank you for that, for all your help and hard work. We’re gonna hop to it tomorrow, together, and I know it’s gonna be great, because I trust you,” Thomas finished with a smile

Roman watched him quietly for a second. Thomas had full faith in him. He trusted him. 

He  _ trusted _  Roman. He thought he was going to do great. 

He wiped at his eye, trying to not start crying again. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed to hear that, how much he had longed for Thomas’ clear approval.

“Thank you, Thomas,” Thomas perked up as Roman spoke, voice soft but sentiments solid. “I..I really needed to hear that.”

“Always here for you, Roman,” Thomas promised.

Roman grinned, and struck his usual princely pose as he sank back down into the Mindscape. Thomas watched, then let out a long breath. 

He was doing okay. Every part of him. 

He was gonna be okay. Thomas turned back to his meal, nearly finished now, with a new fond smile on his face. 


	30. EPILOGUE: i just can't wait to be king

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Remus is in this chapter lmao, a pillow fight, scars, mentions of weaponry, mentions of fights, argument mentions — hopefully this covers it! let me know if i missed anything!
> 
> this has been a long long week, 'cause i just started a new job! wrote this between meetings and at idle desk time, though!!! oh my god there's just one more after this im SHOOK 
> 
> enjoy!!! love you so much !

Roman closed the door carefully behind himself, letting out an exhale. He then rested his forehead on the door, smiling a soft and true smile to himself. 

It’d been a week since his little  _ incident _ , and he had never felt so loved. Patton and him had cooked dinner, dancing around each other, and heck, they’d gotten Logan to sing when they revealed it was breakfast for dinner. Who knew the man could drop bars for Crofters? Well, they all knew, but he’d let Virgil tape it for future reference. Deceit had even helped do the dishes with Virgil afterward, leaning against each other in a way that — Logan posited the theory, but Roman was inclined to agree — was all too familiar to be a new thing.

All in all. It was fairly good. He was healing. He hadn’t changed his countenance around the others since his return, despite the gnawing desire to throw on a fresh layer of skin and his uniform every day. Sometimes, like today, he wore other kinds of fancy clothing. Playwright did have one thing on the money: vests looked so cute. 

God, he was excited to lay down in bed. Hopefully continue to iron out his thoughts. They had a script, too, that had to be edited. He and Logan had to do that tomorrow.

“Oh, good, you’re back,” he turned around, hand flying to his sword on instinct, but the sound of compressed air being released eased his worries. 

There were few constants in his room. He liked having a bed. His desk always remained the same, cluttered with papers and make-up products. Usually there was a window, so he could look out at some kind of view, and there were fairy lights, and a vanity mirror. 

One such constant was the bookshelf. They’d made it soon after the first Split, a secret doorway between the two sides of the Mindscape, because they’d promised to be friends forever. That promise was usually under strain. They were at each other’s throats so often that it was easy to forget that they were also friends. And, at times when Remus’ morningstar was pressed against his chest, Roman’s sword drawing a thin line against his throat, it was easy to forget. So easy. 

Still. They didn’t think anyone would approve of their promise, not after Creativity was split, regardless of why. The bookshelf would open if Roman pulled “The Prince and The Duke,” a fake novel for a fake door. The same thing would happen if, on the other side, Remus tugged the handle of the sword on his weapons wall. “As if I’d ever use something so boring,” Remus had joked when they made it. 

There were times when they wouldn’t open the door for a day. Sometimes it wouldn’t open for weeks. Months. Years, for a small time. But they couldn’t disconnect the Imagination, would accidentally run into each other, would accidentally apologize. Would be friends again. 

They’d been arguing, before the incident. Roman had been angry with how Remus made himself known in the last episode. He’d agreed to it once everyone else expressed that they thought it would match Remus’ characterization, would be comedic, would assert his villain-self, but Roman of course never agreed with it internally. 

Remus had given him his space. And then had accidentally ended up trapped in the Imagination. That’d never happened before, so he sought out Roman, and, well. Found the Damsel instead. 

Roman wondered if it was jarring. If Remus was angry with him. The Dragon and the Damsel were incredibly volatile and aggressive, even with him. The Dragon had said some things. Not all of them were things Roman agreed with, would have voiced had he been given the option, but they were all things he’d thought before. That he was objectively better. That Remus was cast out for a reason. Things Roman had definitely thought, but would die before voicing. Hopefully getting to physically kick the shit out of the Dragon helped Remus let off some steam.

“You’re quite put together, brother,” Remus drawled from the now-open doorway, “Do you have gel in your hair?”

Roman lowered his hand from his sword. There wasn’t any anger in his voice, but Remus was good at being unpredictable, even offstage. “I took everyone to see my library,” he spun around, then began unhooking his sheath belt from his side, “I thought it was a momentous occasion.”

Remus was still in his pajamas, an oversized sweater and some short-shorts, lazily eating some whipped cream straight from the canister. Roman watched as he lifted the container to his mouth and absolutely filled it with whipped cream, smacking on it happily. Then he held out the can to Roman. 

Okay, so he wasn’t mad. That was nice. Roman’s shoulders finally loosened, and he nodded. Remus tossed the can across the room, which Roman caught and consumed easily, spraying his own mouth full of the air-liquid-solid sugary goodness. He could almost hear Logan telling him off for the unhealthy decisions but, well, c’est la vie and it tasted good.

He tossed the canister back and began taking off his vest as Remus entered the room, stealing a quick glance out the window as he did. 

It seemed Roman was tired of the kingdom, because before them was a sprawling city, something out of a comic book. His room looked like it was the penthouse apartment of some building, looming over the other towers, cars honking and lights flashing below. It was night, and this was the night life of his city. 

Remus was kinda fond of the city. Whether they were just people, or superhero and archnemesis, or unlikely companions on a mission, it was always so interesting. Yes, companions. You can’t expect Remus to always want to play the villain, despite it being his favorite role. And, similarly, when they were an evil duo….those were especially fun times, indeed. 

He liked working together. Roman was a dumb bitch a lot of the time, yeah, he was soft and a people pleaser and was so full of himself that there wasn’t any room for anything else. But brothers were brothers, and he did love his brother. The other Sides got to love him, too, in a much different way. Remus wouldn’t hesitate to decapitate any of them if they were mean to Roman. 

Oop! But for now! 

He threw himself onto Roman’s bed, rolling around on top of it to get the blankets stinky, and then propped himself up on his elbows. Roman, now just wearing just his black slacks, shot him a look of disgust. 

Meanwhile, Remus was just looking at Roman’s scars. He usually hid them; they were always striking. Remus had even given him a few! Like that one, on his shoulder — and that one, on the back of his neck — and that one, on his spine — “Do you mind,” Roman asked, raising an eyebrow at him while toying with the white dress shirt in his hand.

“Since when does your Highness physically do anything?” Remus joked, kicking a leg up in a pose. “You can just conjure on new clothes.”

“I’m going to physically throw you off of my bed if you keep messing it around,” Roman shot back, tossing his shirt at Remus. 

He failed to catch the shirt and it smacked straight into his face, and thus Remus’ only viable answer, as a sibling and as a chaos gremlin, was to spray whipped cream into his brother’s bed. Retribution! The shirt covered his face, though, so he just laid down and made snow-angels. Except, you know. On Roman’s bed. Which was now covered in whipped cream.

“I’m just freshening it up for you!” Remus laughed, “I want all the best for my baby, baby brother!”

He heard Roman scoff, then make an incredibly offended noise. He probably finally noticed the disaster state that his bed was in. 

“I’m older. And done,” Roman said, tone as defeated as they come.

“But you’re still a baby,” Remus responded as he rolled over, taking Roman’s shirt off of his face and throwing it back at his pajama-ed princely brother. Roman, now wearing pajama pants, grabbed the shirt and tossed it into his laundry hamper, where it promptly vanished. Why wash clothing when you can think up new ones? I mean, Patton enjoyed the concept of domestic activities, Logan enjoyed order, but Roman didn’t care much for doing chores.

Roman looked back at his mess of a bed as Remus hopped off of it, waving his hand to clean it. The whipped cream vanished, the blanket tucked itself once more, and the smell of roses wafted off of it.

“And you’re still a nuisance,” Roman found himself saying.

There was a pause. 

Roman looked up. Why the fuck did he say that? He looked at Remus, who was halfway through the doorway. Putting away the whipped cream maybe? 

Leaving now? He was frozen. Remus wasn’t moving, and Roman didn’t blame him. His throat felt like it was closing. He hadn’t meant to say that. Well, he had, but he hadn’t mean to be so mean. 

He was always so mean! Always pushing the others away!

“I’m sorry, Remus,” Roman stepped closer, he didn’t want to keep pushing people away, he COULDN’T, “You’re not a nuisance. I...I’m sorry, I said a lot of things—”

“Don’t.”

Roman recoiled, flinching as Remus set the canister down in his room and turned around on the ball of his foot. His face was flat, lacking in expression, hands loose at his sides. It was always weird to see Remus without any exuberance. 

It was weird, until Remus smiled. A small, kind smile. One of those smiles that only Roman and, on some occasions, Deceit was privy to. He held open his arms and Roman, well. He wasn’t one to deny a hug. 

Remus’ hands curled around his shoulders, squeezing the living daylights out of him, while Roman just held him as tenderly as he could against himself. “I know what having no filter’s like,” Remus said, voice quiet and leading into a small, confessional giggle, “And I can’t say I haven’t thought equally devious thoughts about you, Prince Perfect.”

“That’s weirdly promising,” Roman murmured. His hand squeezed Remus’ shoulder, and he pressed his nose into his brother’s collar.

Figuratively, he did feel a weight leave his shoulders. He didn’t want to make an enemy out of his brother, no matter what the world expected of them. No matter what he wanted in the flash anger of a moment

“It is, isn’t it!” Remus squeezed him tight once more, then let go of him, grinning ear to ear as though he was proud, “I was a li~ittle offended at first but, well. It’s hard to offend me for long.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong about that one. Roman was often the one to instigate their arguments. Mostly out of offense.

He smirked, though the happiness, comfort in his eyes made it clear to Remus that he 

“.....Thanks, Remus.”

“My pleasure, Prince Pea-brain,” then Remus giggled, and followed his statement with an elaboration, “Pee, you know, like pea but also like pee, like piss.”

“I see,” Roman leaned out of the hug, a small, happy smile on his lips. Sure, yeah, that was a disgusting image. He didn’t need to see it in his mind’s eye. But! He didn’t want to upset his brother! 

Remus straightened up, then conjured a hot dog. He grinned crookedly and asked, “Gee, Roman, how come Thomas lets you have FOUR boyfriends?”

Roman laughed, moving back toward the bed, expecting Remus to leave almost. They were done, right? Remus didn’t have to stick around. Roman had no expectations. “Because I’m the hot twin,” he said with a smirk.

“Hot as a hot dog on the sidewalk pavement,” the hotdog in Remus’ hand turned into a pillow, which he used to smack Roman in the face with. “Covered in spilt popsicle and snow and pee, Prince Pee-brain.”

Roman spluttered, arms immediately shooting to protect his face, despite the pillow being a lot softer than a morning star. Still, he laughed. 

At least it was a pillow!

“Holy fuck, ew,” Roman grabbed himself a pillow off of his bed and smacked Remus in the side with it.

Remus just laughed. These arguments were fun. The ones with no stakes other than making the other think something ridiculously outlandish. 

It was good to have his brother back. Remus was certain Roman knew by now that he was happy to see him, he was so  _ relieved  _ that he was okay. Of course, he’d rather have his tongue cut out and grilled and served as BBQ before inflating Roman’s ego anymore, but, then again….he was glad that his concern was over Roman having too much of an ego than none at all.

“I’m right and you know it,” he retorted, smacking Roman once more in the head with his pillow before tossing it back onto the bed and hopping away toward the window.

Roman recoiled, making an exaggeratedly disgusted expression. He swung at Remus as he fled, but found him out of reach. At that, he “Am I allowed to hate that visual? Because I do.”

“Love you, too, Abel,” Remus stuck his tongue out at Roman, who smacked him with the pillow once more before tossing it back onto his bed.

Then, he fell against the cushions. It had been a week, yes, but everything was still sore. And Remus was just going to keep jumping around. Might as well verbally fence with him from laying down. 

“I am a sacrificial lamb,” Roman’s voice took on a deadpan tone, “And God is my brother with a morning star.”

They both laughed at that one, airing out the last threads of the already. loosely-wound argumentative knot. Remus fell back against Roman’s bed with him, heads only lightly resting against each other, while Roman reached up. The ceiling opened up at his command, the Imagination swirling above them like a cyclonic galaxy, stars glittering on the black backdrop of nothingness and space. It was all theirs. Their kingdom, built separately yet together.

Roman exhaled. It was all so….pleasant. “Thank you, Remus,” he murmured. “For believing in me.”

Remus knocked his head against Roman’s, earning a small chuckle. “I always have.”

He paused for a second, turning back up to the ceiling, then added. “We’re the king, after all.”

“That we are,” Roman said, “That we are.”

 


	31. EPILOGUE: remember me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: slight panic attack, generalized anxiety/worry — and that’s all, folks!
> 
> i'm kinda. emotional about this. this is the last chapter. sure, yeah, 28 is the last chapter of the main story, but if all goes to plan, then this will be the last thing i add to the official canon of chivalry is dead. and that's making me kinda melancholic. 
> 
> thank you so, so much for taking this journey with me. i hope you've enjoyed the ride <3 <3 <3

Virgil stood in front of the door. 

Now, look, it honestly wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t like it’d be the first time he was ever in the Imagination. After Roman’s incident, they regrouped, reconvened, discussed some communication issues. They went on dates, they debated, they kissed, they argued, they snuggled, they figured each other out bit by bit by bit and were continuing to work it through. And now, nearly four months later, they were in a much safer place.

So he wasn’t scared of the concept of entering the Imagination.

Roman had even, in a spur of the moment display of trust, took them into the Imagination on his own terms. He had taken them to a restaurant in a city he’d created, an Italian restaurant where money didn’t exist and the food was delicious. Thus, they ordered a bunch, bread sticks and pasta and pizza and salads. Then he’d taken them to a park in the same city, and had shown them the constellations he’d drawn out by hand. It was a breathtaking evening.

So Virgil was not afraid of the Imagination, no. 

He was more afraid of the fact that Roman had gone in three days ago, and that there was an aura, something he could always sense and never describe, something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand at attention, dripping out of the room. Roman was anxious about something. Probably. Because that feeling was what it felt like when someone was nervous, when one of them was nervous, and the only person it could be coming from out of Roman’s room is Roman.

After the first day of his disappearance, Deceit was adamant that they go in after Roman immediately, hoping to avoid a situation similar to the last. Patton didn’t want to disturb him, Logan pointed out that disturbing him worked out last time. Virgil didn’t want him to be upset, to disrespect his growth by suggesting he would do something so drastic again. Eventually, they settled on three days as a happy middle ground, and now here Virgil was, three days later, shifting his weight and standing in front of the Imagination’s entrance. The others all wanted to come with, but Virgil….he respected that, but only he could tell that Roman was anxious about something, so he wanted to check up first. Just in case. 

Roman’s room still existed, yeah, and was unlocked. That was a good sign in Virgil’s books. It meant Roman was still Roman. There were still fairy lights, still a bed, still a dresser. Still a vanity, still a separate door to the Imagination, and Virgil’s little fear trail was leading him right through that door. So Roman was in the Imagination somewhere, and it wasn’t like he knew how to navigate the place completely just because Roman took them out on a date once. That also made Virgil nervous. Did I mention that? Did we establish that Virgil was nervous?

Chill. You can just go in there and talk to him. You just go in and ask, hey, Princey, are you okay. It’s easy, Virgil. It’s  _ easy _ . After all, you’ve only been standing in his room, starring at the door for, what, two hours? Going on three?

As easy as just opening a door and walking through it. His hand opened, then closed tighter, balling into fists at his sides as he stared. There’s not really any use waiting. He really should go for it. 

Just do it. 

Virgil grabbed the door handle and twisted it, darting into the room before he could back out. 

And he’s in a castle. Granted, Virgil didn’t get to see the actual castle’s halls or rooms the last time he was here, so he was just assuming based on the stone walls and general castle-vibe he was getting from the furniture. It was all abysmal last time, too, sparsely decorated and bleakly colored. Probably reflective of Roman’s actual mental state. Now, though, Virgil had stepped into a lusciously carpeted room with windows lining one wall, while the other has curtains and tapestries of the brightest vibrance. They were less descript than the tapestries on the stairwell — perhaps this was simply Roman’s castle as opposed to a shared setting.

He frowned and closed the door behind himself — it didn’t disappear, thankfully. The door itself is adorned with a plaque that reads “Mindscape.” Maybe Roman forgets which door leads to where sometimes? Virgil doesn’t really know. He wouldn’t put it past Roman, though, since he usually made a lot of real intricate stuff. 

Speaking of Roman, though….

Virgil stuffed his hands into his pockets and started down the hallway, taking every step carefully. Last time he was here, one of the Romans mentioned that it’d been boobytrapped. Virgil wasn’t keen on setting anything off. 

He had to actually find Roman, though. He had to keep going.

He rounded the corner at the end just as someone else was exiting another door. At first, he thought it was a guard, given they had a red cape-looking thing, but he registered that it was a scarf soon after. Then, as the person turned around, Virgil realized it wasn’t a guard at all.

“Virgil,” the Damsel said, staring at him with equal amounts of surprise, “How pleasant. It’s good to see you again.”

He wasn’t adorned in torn uniforms anymore. The Damsel wore his sash around his neck, covering his shoulders even, like a large shawl. It covered a black shirt with winged-sleeves that end at his elbows and has his single-tower identifier near his left breast, glittering gold against the black shirt. His pants were a dark red, too, high waisted and tucked into knee-high black boots. His eye was covered with a real patch now, a black eyepatch with Roman’s full crest embroidered in, and he held a gold cane in his left hand, leaning on it just barely. Similarly to the Dragon, Virgil noted dully, there wasn’t any white on him at all. That might have been an indicator to the, uh, more dastardly notions of the Damsel’s existence. But he wasn’t noting that very heavily. 

Dully, because Virgil can’t help but be worried. He pointed at the Damsel, frowning, opening his mouth and finding that no words would come. 

How did the Damsel still exist? Hadn’t they all disappeared when Roman reformed? He hadn’t mentioned them — oh, God, oh fucking God, oh no, had Roman 

He couldn’t think it but he could but he had to but he couldn’t. Had Roman

Broken 

Again?

Virgil didn’t even process that the Damsel was now holding his arms, hands light as feathers as he tried to say something to him. 

“It’s okay, Virgil!”

He tried to focus on what the Damsel was saying without thinking of Broken Again?

Roman? Broken again?

_ Again _ ?

“Virgil, damnit, breathe,” the Damsel whispered, “It’s okay. Roman’s okay. You’re okay.”

Okay, he could hear him now. Virgil nodded a little, and now he could hear his own breathing, fast and sporadic. Holy shit.

The Damsel smiled a tiny bit at him. “Good. Focus on my voice. I’m going to do this out of order because I….honestly, don’t remember the order,” he bit his lip, then asked, “Can you give me five things you see?” 

He could do that. “You,” Virgil croaked, then cleared his throat, “That curtain. It’s red. The stone. The grey carpet. It’s sunny outside. So the sky.”

The Damsel nodded, and Virgil pointed at him. “Your scarf.”

“Very good. Four things you can hear?”

“Your voice,” Virgil said, “There’re birds chirping outside. I think something downstairs? Someone talking. And breathing.”

“Good,” the Damsel rubbed his arms soothingly, up and down, just gentle enough that it wasn’t a lot of pressure but could be felt, “How’re you feeling?”

Virgil exhaled. He was definitely calmer, that was just a tiny small momentary panic, he’s gotta hold himself together. And it didn’t help that he could feel Romans fears beating around the Imagination like a pulse. Less fear now, though, which was good. Maybe it was pooling in his room or something? Maybe it was because Roman was broken up again? Virgil couldn’t remember how the apprehension felt the first time, he just remembered being panicked and trying to not actively stalk his fear levels. Actually, he was pretty certain, at the time, that Roman would think it was weird. 

Maybe it was weird. He didn’t know. He just knew it was helpful in times like this, when their communication was lacking. It was how he knew when the others were stressed. He could sense it, kinda. 

“I think you can stop. Where’s, um….” He could sense it, but that was about it. Didn’t do a load of help in this kinda situation.

“Roman?” the Damsel finished with a gentle smile, all tired and quietness with none of the veiled threatening that he used to hold, “He’s downstairs, in a brainstorming session. If it’s been longer than one day, then that means he lost track of time, perhaps. We can fetch him together if you’d like?” 

Virgil swallowed a little. Roman was just....downstairs? “He’s okay?” 

The Damsel chuckled a little, waving his hand flippantly, as though it weren’t even a question. “Of course he’s okay, annoying as ever. Why…..,” the Damsel glanced at Virgil again with sudden understanding, “Oh, yes. The rest of us didn’t disappear, as it happened. We just are no longer Roman. He exists currently, as do the rest of us.”

Oh. Oh, okay, that made a bit more sense.

Okay, Roman was okay.

The Damsel sighed, still smiling, as though he’d expected Virgil to be confused. Honestly, it was a confusing situation; he couldn’t blame Anxiety for not getting the hang of the situation when Creativity also barely understood.

“Well, Roman put a lot of himself into our characterization,” he said, waving his hand as he spoke, “But by the time he was done with that little fiasco, we had such deep individual characterization that we couldn’t just be erased. We became Characters of his Imagination. Think of like….a self-insert character to a very specific storyline. Separate from Roman, but alike enough to still bear resemblances.” 

Come to think of it, the more Virgil focused on the Damsel’s face, the more he noticed differences. He had freckles dotting his entire face, which was a little paler and a little more gaunt than it had been last Virgil saw. His hair was also different, way more noticeably so. It was a dirty blonde, for one, swept up to the side in a more prim version of Roman’s typically windswept style.

Recognizably Roman-esque, but less than a clone. A whole separate Character. Okay, Virgil could grasp that a bit more. He gestured to the Damsel, then out the window.

“So you’re all still in here? You, Thief, Dragon, Child, Artist, everyone?”

“Mhm. And things’ve changed, like our dynamics. As you can see,” the Damsel gestured to himself, then lifted his cane a little, “I’m not in rags anymore. A little bit of an upgrade to riches, if I do say so myself.”

He could definitely tell the difference, yeah. The Damsel carried himself a little more heartily, still timid but confident. Different indeed.

Well. That made Virgil feel loads better, actually, but he still wanted to see Roman. Logan had given him a watch specifically so he wouldn’t lose time in the Imagination, god damn it, what was the point of getting him a watch if he wasn’t gonna use it?

He’d have to tell Roman off or something. Virgil looked around the Damsel’s shoulder, down the hall, at the stairs, and then looked at the Damsel. “You said Roman’s brainstorming for video stuff?”

The Damsel nodded, then gestured behind himself. “Yes, we can go—”

“PHILLIP!”

They both jumped, then looked at the stairs as the Dragon hopped up them. He looked around, spotted the pair, and grinned. Then he began sprinting down the hall.

Virgil jumped to the side and the Damsel braced himself as the Dragon picked him up and cradled him to his chest immediately, laughing all the while. He pressed a kiss to the Damsel’s forehead and grinned, while the Damsel held his cane tight in his hand and elbow, frowning at him. 

Virgil’s mouth hung open a tiny bit. 

The Dragon just  _ kissed _  him?

The Damsel seemed unphased, even wriggling a little, trying to get the Dragon to calm down. He stole a glace at Virgil, almost bashful if the blush on his pale cheeks was any indication, then patted the Dragon’s chest again as he swung him around. “Dragon, I was talking with—”

“There you are!” the Dragon’s voice still bellowed as he rambled, and Virgil could see he was a little bulkier, a little taller, a little broader-shouldered, a little different. Just like the Damsel had said. “I was looking all over for you, Eric’s here to pick up Gavin and Cadence, who SHOULD be done with David, Marlowe, and Roman by now, so I was wondering, since you know, Roman was talking about Patton’s macaroni and cheese, if you’d let me and David go wild in the kitchen and make some with every possible cheese in existence. I know it’ll get messy but I think Gavin at least would like it—”

“Dragon,” the Damsel said, going limp in his arms as the Dragon continued to swing him around while rambling.

“—And I can promise that it won’t get as messy as the homemade pizza terror from last month, Eric hasn’t let me forget about how we let the stone oven burn too hot and Cadence’s sash caught fire. We’ll be extra extra careful, we’ll even have Marlowe watch if you want to be extra careful—”

“Draco,” the Damsel rubbed his face. 

“Dude,” Virgil said at the same time.

The Dragon quieted, looking up at Virgil. Apparently he hadn’t noticed that the Damsel wasn’t alone in the hallway. He opened his mouth, then closed it, and then carefully set the Damsel back on his own two legs. 

Before the Dragon could take off again, the Damsel held up a hand in front of his face and spoke. “Thank you,” he huffed, “Dragon, you cannot pick me up every time you see me.”

While the Damsel chided the Dragon on his behavior, Virgil took the time to examine the differences more. The Dragon was a little tanner in a sun-kissed kinda way, his hair was a little more brown and way shorter, eyes a glowing red rather than the brown of Thomas and Roman that they all shared. Used to share.

His outfit had changed, too; he no longer had a sash. His cape was floor-length and attached to his shoulders, which had tasseled shoulder straps. He wore a red shirt and black vest, attached by buttons in the front and pinned with a brooch of his castle walls insignia. At his waist was a brown leather belt, the sheath for his sword, which was now also attached to his thigh. Must make for more stable sheathing?

He grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck as the Damsel finished up on his lecture about why not to pick him up randomly. Virgil also noticed, as his cape moved, that his tail was visible. Must be a more permanent fixture, too. 

“So,” the Damsel crossed his arms, “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“….I like carrying you,” the Dragon finally said, barring his sharp teeth in a nervous smile.

The Damsel’s shoulders slumped. God damnit, that was a defeating blow. He hummed lightly, but then nodded to Virgil. “Fine. But Virgil’s here.”

Uh oh.

“I saw!” the Dragon whipped around to the side, grinning eagerly, “Virgil’s here!” he let out a hearty laugh and, before Virgil could tell him to please  _ not _ , wrapped his arms around Virgil’s waist and hoisted him up. 

He swung him side to side, hugging him tight in an embrace, and then set him down. There was a thumping sound behind him as his tail wagged like a dog and beat against the ground.

Before Virgil could retaliate, something akin to socking the Dragon in the jaw, the Damsel got between them both and lightly knocked his knuckle against the Dragon’s chest. “Dragon,” he said, “What did I  _ just  _ say. You can’t just go picking people up like that, you need to ask them for consent.”

These were a lot of changes. Virgil leaned on the stone wall, careful of the curtain they were beside, and honestly just tried to sink out of the scene.

The Dragon slumped, arms dropping to his sides as he threw his head back and groaned. “Agh, jeez, you’re right but!” he hopped back up and clapped excitedly. “Virgil! I’m so happy to see you again! It’s been ages.” 

Who knew the Dragon was almost as animated as the Bard, jeez. Virgil gave him a strained smile, fists clenched in his hoodie pockets. Punching this guy might actually just be a death wish, so Virgil decided against it, but damn if he wasn’t already anxious. “Yeah, good to see you too, big guy.”

The Dragon stood up straight once more, preening in happiness, not picking up on Virgil’s tension in the slightest. Either by choice or by the tension flying over his head. He turned when the Damsel began talking again. “I was just taking Virgil downstairs, to Roman.”

“Oh, yeah! Okay!” then, the Dragon opened his arms, ”May I….?”

The Damsel raised his eyebrows tiredly, then glanced quickly at Virgil, who was perplexed. He seemed to weigh his options before relenting and leaning into the Dragon’s arms. 

“....Yes, fine,” he whispered, voice small. 

It must have been a tiring day even prior to Virgil’s arrival, if his drop in tone was any indication. The Dragon scooped him up, cradling the Damsel in a bridal-style carry against his chest. The Damsel held his cane between his knees and rested his head against the Dragon’s shoulder, closing his eye a bit as his shoulders relaxed.

Having the Dragon made him feel more comfortable, now a days. I could turn this into the Damsel waxing poetic about how much he loved the Dragon, but let’s be real here, you wanna see the others, too. Let’s just say that the Damsel’s as good at Roman is at waxing poetic. Maybe better.

Virgil didn’t even wanna question what the fuck was happening. Last HE heard, the Dragon had kinda, ya know. Kicked the shit out of the Damsel and ruined his self-esteem. I guess things were changing just before he left, that’s how Roman got reformed, but….jeez, how long had it been?

Once he was settled, the Dragon grinned at Virgil, happy, maybe even ecstatic, and nodded down the hall. “C’mon, this way,” and they started down the hall.

Okay, no, Virgil was confused. He didn’t realize they were so friendly to have a easy conversation, though that made more sense. As the Damsel nestled into the Dragon’s arms a little more, he just got even more confused.

Yeah, okay, he was gonna question it. Weren’t they still on pretty rocky grounds? Weren’t they literally opposites? What the heck was happening? Why had the Dragon kissed him? Were they….? Ya know….?

Well, the Damsel did mention that their dynamics had changed. How long had they changed, though? And how drastically.

“How long’ve you all been around in here?” Virgil coughed. “Since the incident, I mean.”

The Damsel hummed in thought, head rolling side to side as he did. “Its been about, oh….something equivalent to maybe a year? Maybe a few months more? I don’t know, we didn’t do a new years celebration or anything spectacular.”

“Yeah,” the Dragon added, leading the way down a grand staircase that opened out at the end of the hall, “It’s been like, six months together, though.”

Wait, wait, wait, Virgil held up a hand. Did that just confirm his suspicions? “Together?” 

“Yea~eah,” the Dragon grinned, throwing a pleased smile back to Virgil, “Phillip and I’re dating.”

Wait. Okay, now there was another question.

The Dragon had dropped a lot of names earlier and, at first, Virgil just thought they were random characters or something. But….

“.....Phillip,” he stated.

“Yep!”

The Damsel sighed, and nudged his chest with his elbow. “Dragon, darling, he doesn’t know we have names.”

The Dragon glanced at Virgil, then hummed in acknowledgement as it finally clicked.

“Oh, oh, that makes sense.” the Dragon hopped onto the ground floor, then let the Damsel down slowly. He stood upright and jerked a thumb at his chest, cape sweeping behind himself as he did. “I’m Draco!”

Virgil’s first mental association was definitely Draco Malfoy, but that couldn’t be the Dragon’s namesake, right? Wasn’t the etymology of “dragon” from the Latin word for snake? Draco? Wasn’t that it?

“Like dragon? Isn’t that where the word came from?” Virgil raised an eyebrow and looked at the Damsel, who shook his head with a small smile. 

The Dragon laughed. “No, like the kid from the Harry Potter books! But that’s also really, really cool if that’s where the word comes from.”

Virgil nodded slowly, then turned to the Damsel, who was still straightening his clothing out, though he hid a smile with a bitten lip. Virgil cleared his throat a little, catching his attention, and the Damsel stood up straight once more. He glanced side-long to the Dragon, then spoke.

“My name is Phillip,” he said, voice tight.

Virgil didn’t really know why he was so tense about it, until he heard the Dragon — well, Draco — scoff beside him. He ruffled Phillip’s hair and slung his arm around his shoulders with a broad smile.

“PRINCE Phillip! Like the one who defeated Maleficent, ya know!” Draco corrected, then squeezed Phillip’s waist and pressed a kiss against his temple. “Except this one just woo’ed the dragon, eh?”

Phillip rolled his eyes, but a blush was growing on his cheeks. “Draco, please.”

This was a lot. “....What?” Virgil’s voice sounded kind of strangled as he tried to take in and process that information. 

While Phillip gave him a small, apologetic shrug, Draco just squeezed Phillip some more.

“Hell YEAH babey!” he did a fistpump and bounced along the hallway, leading the way to the final corner.

Before Virgil could ask any follow-ups, too — like, they had names? And now they were dating? Apparently??? — he was distracted by another figure in the large hallway. There was a child, the Child in fact, sitting on the carpet. He was scribbling something in a little book, hand moving so fast that Virgil couldn’t tell if he was just scribbling or actually writing something. The Dragon — Draco, oh my god, this was harder than Virgil thought it’d be, he hadn’t even thought they were alive anymore and now he was supposed to accept that they were real Characters — waved to him. “Hey! Hey, Gavin! Hey!” 

“Draco,” Phillip hissed, nudging his side, “Titles. Virgil doesn’t know everyone’s names.”

Draco’s hand curled as he winced, then smiled at Phillip. “Oh, right, sorry.”

Virgil waved his hand, he didn’t really care, and the Child stood up in his peripheral. He skipped on over, no longer wearing his black cloak. In fact, he just wore a simple white shirt with the golden sun insignia on its front and black pants. Though, as he skipped, Virgil could see that his shoes had light-up red soles. Neat.

He had dimples when he smiled, and his light blonde hair flipped every time he skipped, still cut in a messy bowl cut. 

The Child stopped right in front of Virgil and held out a hand, smiling excitedly. To humor him, Virgil held open both of his arms, and the Child gasped. 

He dove into Virgil’s arms and hugged him tight, laughing and snuggling against his stomach. Virgil chuckled a little himself, who knew his happiness was so infectious, and patted the Child’s back. “Hey, kiddo,” he said.

“Hi Mister Anxiety! It’s so good to see you again!” the Child looked up at him, still hugging him, “How are you? Are Mister Logic and Mister Morality and Mister Deceit okay too? Roman says they’re okay but I wanna know from you, too, ‘cause you’re really good at knowing stuff like that.” 

That he was, at least. Not at knowing much else, but that was a digression. Virgil smiled back at him, putting his hand on the Child’s head without doing much else. “I’m doin’ alright, we’re all doin’ okay. You?”

“I’m doing okay!” the Child let go, and so did Virgil. He swayed from side to side as he spoke. “Things’ve been okay here! Uh, Thief and Roman have been teaching me how to sword fight properly, so that’s cool. I don’t really know how to fight, ‘cause I beat Princey mostly ‘cause he was too sad to figure out what was happening.”

At that, Phillip clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Don’t downplay your accomplishments,” the Child grinned at the compliment, blushing just a little, and wow, his face was absolutely covered in freckles. That was a big difference that Virgil noted, the kid had freckles. “You won fair and square.”

The Child struck a pose, arms flexing at his shoulders as he smiled with full teeth at the trio of adults. Well, almost full, he was missing one of his front teeth. Adorable.

“I sure did!” 

Virgil smirked a bit, then glanced at the Da — PHILLIP, God damn it — and Draco. I guess now’s a good a time as any to ask for the Child’s name directly, right? I mean, we’ve heard it already, but might as well hear the name from the face. 

Would he not wanna share his name though? Would that be Virgil pressuring him?

Okay, no, it was the Child. He was….he wouldn’t be upset if Virgil asked. No. He should go for it. He should just go for it, it might be good to know.

Virgil cleared his throat. “Phillip and Draco said you all have names now?”

The Child brightened immediately, apparently excited to be asked. He leaned back, hands on his hips, and jerked his thumb towards himself similarly to how Draco had introduced himself. 

“Ooh! Do you wanna know  _ my _  name?” he asked, smiling cheekily at Virgil.

Who, now that it was clear that the Child wanted to share, knew how to play this game. He crossed his arms, grinning right back, and leaned in. “If you want to tell me,” he raised an eyebrow at him.

Draco opened his mouth, and Phillip put his hand on top of Draco’s shoulder as the Child bounced on his feet again. He clapped excitedly, then held out his hand for Virgil to shake. “I do! My name’s Gavin!” he smiled toothily, and Virgil could see that he was missing one of his front teeth now, “Nice to meet you, Mister Anxiety!”

Virgil shook his head, chuckling fondly as he reached out his hand and gripped Gavin’s tenderly. He was a good kid. “Nice to meet you, Gavin.” 

Gavin shook his hand, then let go and pointed directly at Virgil “And you’re Virgil! Do I get to say that now?”

“That I am,” Virgil put his hands back into his pockets, “And if you wanna.”

“Virgil,” Gavin’s lip twisted down in a small frown, “Vir-gil. Virgil. I kinda like Mister Anxiety better, actually? I dunno if I’m on first-name basis with anyone. You’re all old.”

Virgil shrugged. In all honesty, being called ‘Anxiety’ was a title, but hearing the kid put the ‘Mister’ in front definitely softened the seriousness of the moniker. He kinda liked it. “Whichever you prefer, kiddo,” Gavin giggled, and Virgil exhaled a bit of tension he hadn’t expected, hoping for the Child’s approval, “What’re you waiting out here for?”

Gavin looked to the side and Virgil followed his eyeline. 

Physically, they were in a slightly wider hallway. Virgil hadn’t really taken note of it, all the hallways kinda did look the same, what with the red drapery and carpeting and all. But this one was slightly wider, with suits of armor and tapestries and paintings adorning the walls up and down the hallway.

Before them, situated neatly between two thick velvet curtains, was a pair of double doors. It had Roman’s crest burnt into the wood across both doors, with two golden handles on either “castle” window. Roman was definitely in there. 

“Well, Bard’s in there,” Gavin pointed to the door, “With Roman and Artist and Playwright. They’ve been brainstorming for a week about possible video topics, and I think Roman probably lost track of time. Thief’s coming to pick me up soon ‘cause I was supposed to get Bard to come home a few days ago but then Dragon and I got really excited about Disney.”

At the mention of Disney, Draco lit up, but Phillip patted his arm in such a way that seemed to calm him down. Virgil figured it’s a common occurrence due to how Gavin giggled when he did.

“That makes sense,” Phillip sighed, rubbing his forehead and shooting Draco a tiny, noncommittal glare, “I told Roman he had to watch how long he’d be in here, or else you would get worried. And then he said Deceit would get worried first which, obvious, is not the case—”

“Well,” Draco raised a finger, “Deceit  _ was _  real pissed that we were in here alone so long that one time!” 

Virgil didn’t really want to interrupt, as the trio began a light-hearted debate, but he kinda did wanna see Roman, just to make sure he was okay. And he took a bit of offense to that, you know! It was his job to be worried! Deceit’s job was to, I dunno, lie and dispute morally grey decisions and also steal all the good sun-bathing spots in the Mindscape. And steal all of Virgil’s hoodies. He was gonna have to start sewing new ones, given the rate that Deceit yoinked them out of his possession, goodness gracious.

He just kinda nodded and smiled along with the discussions, Draco posing ridiculous situations in which Deceit and Virgil both break into the Imagination, Phillip pointing out that Remus would likely find them first, Gavin saying Remus taught him swear words — wait, what was that last part?

“Virgil!”

The entire group turned to the window, where the Thief was leaning against the sill. Draco scoffed, surprised to see him, but both Gavin and Phillip softened considerably. “Good afternoon, Thief,” Phillip called up, waving a hand, “Come join us, we’re just waiting for the others to finish.”

“We’re gonna wait?” Gavin asked with a frown and a pout, “But then they’ll take fore~ever! Playwright talks for so lo~ong.”

Phillip opened his mouth, but Draco cut him off first with a grunt of agreement. He put his hands up in defense when Phillip shot him a glare, though.

“Hey, the kid’s right, Marlowe could talk the ears off of someone,” Draco said. 

And, before Phillip could reply to that, Gavin giggled. He swatted Draco’s knee with one hand while the other held his mouth. “Hold on to my ears?” he prompted. 

Draco laughed, and Phillip hissed, “No, no.” 

But before anything got achieved, Draco gently took off his own ears and did a little dance. Oh, good christ.

“Hold on to my ears?” he joked, “Done and done!” 

Virgil raised both of his eyebrows. Wow. Glad to know that jackass still had an air of influence among the….well, they weren’t exactly Romans anymore, were they? Still. Gross.

“Let me just swoop in and save you from that nonsense,” the Thief said, voice soft and dark beside him now. “You know, I tell Bard to not let Child near Remus, but I don’t think he listens.” 

Virgil snickered quietly and turned to the Thief, ignoring how Phillip chastised Draco and Gavin for their antics (though, if you asked Virgil, at least Gavin was valid in being childish). The Thief didn’t outwardly change in outfit so much as appearance. He still wore a thick black patchwork cloak, which he held tight with one gloved hand, while his other hand rested gloveless and limp at his side.

His face was a little different, a little paler, with dark circles beneath his hazel eyes. He had a beauty spot still, and a scar, maybe more scars than he had before. Along with that, though, his hair was actually a little longer, and jet black. It was undercut and swooped to the side. Maybe it was flatter too? He couldn’t really tell the difference.

The Thief smirked, then stuffed both of his hands into his pockets. His cloak flapped open a little, revealing a few belts and straps along his waist. Probably for swords? Virgil wasn’t a hundred percent sure. “It’s good to see you, Virgil.” 

Virgil nodded back. “Good to see you, too,” he said, looking around just a little before looking back at the Thief, “Is the window the door now?”

He shrugged, looking very pleased. “It is for me,” was all he said. 

“Hey,” Draco scowled at him, pointing a finger out in between Phillip and Gavin to interrupt their conversation. “Speaking of the window, How the fuck did you get in here?”

This seemed to be a common point of conversation as well. Virgil was actually interested, but the Thief just shrugged again, and Gavin laughed, applauding happily. Even Phillip chuckled fondly and nudged Draco with a gentle shoulder and a, “Language.”

Draco rolled his eyes, tail wrapping around Phillip’s knees, hand wrapping around his waist as he pulled him closer. “Sorry, Phillip,” he grumbled.

“A thief doesn’t tell his secrets,” the Thief tapped his nose, then tilted his head with a sly grin, “Besides, didn’t you say part of the fun was boobytrapping the place for me?”

Draco groaned, and Gavin covered his mouth to stifle his giggles. Virgil guessed that was where the boobytraps came in.

Virgil looked down at Gavin and raised an eyebrow, wondering what was so funny. In response, though, Gavin just pointed up at Draco. 

“Yeah, yeah, it is, but then you always get around them” Draco waved his other hand dismissively, then covered his forehead with it.

The Thief winked. “Ah, and that’s  _ my _  fun. Already stole some of your gold, too.”

Before Draco could add any more — and it definitely looked like he had words he could trade with the Thief — Gavin grabbed the Thief’s cloak sleeve and tugged gently. That drew his attention, and he leaned down to listen, everyone else accidentally listening given the nature of how they were all standing in a circle and how that move was absolutely not subtle.

“Thief,” Gavin stage-whispered, “I told him my name. We have names now, remember?”

The Thief blinked, as though just actually remembering, and then sighed. “Oh, yeah,” he did not sound pleased, “Uh.”

Virgil didn’t really want to push him, and given how nervous the Thief looked (was that how Virgil looked?), it seemed that he just might not want to share. But then the Thief smiled shyly at him and said, “Well, uh, it wouldn’t hurt, I guess?”

He looked like he was going to continue, his mouth even opened, but someone else broke the tension for him.

“E~Eric!” 

They all turned to the door adorned with Roman’s crest, which slowly cracked open, and the Thief sighed. At least that saved him the trouble of having to weight the opportunity of telling Virgil his name or not. He popped his lips and jerked his thumb back toward the door. 

“....That’s me,” the Thief — Eric — said, turning to the newly opened double doors and calling out, “I’m here, ‘Den!”

The door flung the rest of the way open, and the Bard twirled out, doing the splits and a post just in front of the doorway. Though, once he saw his audience, he sprang back to his feet and gasped.

It was definitely the Bard, though he had also changed quite drastically. Gone was the vest and sash, as he now wore a skirt that cut out with jagged edges, the golden trim mimicking mountains, decorated with sequin stars. It was tied off at his waist, and on top he wore a baggy, off-shoulder white shirt. Beneath the skirt were tights, black and sparkling, that sank into his brown boots. 

Similarly, his face had changed as well. He clearly still wore make-up, but his eyeshadow was pronounced, hues of gold with a hard red cut-crease against his lid as he apparently experimented with bolder styles — not just to hide, but to express himself further. He also wore light burgundy lipstick, which stood out against his pearly whites when he smiled at Virgil, and his tight-coiled hair bounced around his face when he tilted his head.

“Oh, Virgil!” he sang, clasping his hands to his cheek excitedly. 

“Virgil’s here?” someone else said from the inside.

“Ah, I have been in here for a long while, it must have been a few days,” that was his Roman, Virgil could pick out his voice. A small bud of pride bloomed in his chest at the knowledge that he could pick out Roman’s voice amongst this sea of semi-Romans. “I’m sorry, my Tell-Tale Heart! Be out in a minute!”

“Aye, Para-normie!” the Artist laughed, waving at him as he exited next,“Long time no see!”

“Yeah, heh,” Virgil hadn’t expected a goddamned reunion, but that was what was happening now.

The Artist was closely followed by the Playwright, who held a clipboard with a stack of papers on top of it. He smiled at Virgil and bowed his head in greetings. “Good to see you again,” he said.

“You too,” Virgil looked around at them.

Roman himself exited next, wearing a fairly casual set of clothing, hair a tousled mess and scars still lightly visible. Figured; if he were working hard at brainstorming, then it made sense that he wouldn’t be checking his appearance so diligently. He smiled sheepishly at Virgil when he came outside, closing the doors behind himself before hurrying to his side. “I’m sorry for making you worry,” he whispered, and Virgil said nothing, but nudged Roman’s shoulder with his head.

As Virgil felt the final excesses of tension leave his chest, Eric leaned a little closer in to the circle. “Since he stole my introduction,” he grinned, arms crossed across his chest while one finger pointed at the Bard, who was talking animatedly with Draco, “That’s Cadence.”

Upon hearing his name, the Bard jumped, looking around. He squinted at Eric, who shrugged, though Virgil couldn’t hide his own smile as well. 

“Are you telling Virgil my name?” Cadence huffed, putting his hands on his hips and puffing up his cheeks.

“You were out here telling Virgil  _ my _  name,” Eric responded, grinning.

Virgil opened his mouth to stop the brewing argument, but Roman nudged his arm. He leaned in, close enough that his lips brushed Virgil’s ear, and whispered, “They’re dating, don’t worry. Eric knows what he’s doing.”

Just as Roman warned him about that, Cadence rolled his eyes and leaned even closer, head resting on Eric’s shoulder. “You wound me, royal ruffian, perfect pillager,” he groaned, hand upturning on his forehead as he pretended to swoon, “All my ego, all my pride, gone!”

Eric stepped back, and let Cadence fall into his arms in a motion that seemed both impromptu yet fluid enough to have not been the first time. Virgil watched Eric stoop down and kiss Cadence’s forehead, responding quiet enough that he couldn’t hear what was said. That got Cadence to laugh, and he swung his legs up and around Eric’s back, until he was doing a whole flip out of his hold and back onto his feet.

Wild. Virgil raised both his eyebrows at Roman, who shrugged sympathetically. “A lot’s changed,” was all the explanation he could provide.

Guess there was….a lot of love going around, huh? 

Changes were pretty fast paced around here.

He looked around to the rest of the crowd, the Artist and Phillip exchanging thoughts on something or another, the Playwright jumping in every so often while Draco listened, behind in that conversation after losing Cadence. 

It almost reminded him of the world….of the Mindscape, specifically. Immediately after he was accepted. He would just walk into the kitchen to get some instant noodles and immediately be swarmed into a conversation. It was unexpected, how easily everyone leaned into including him, almost as though it’d been decided on a long time ago. 

A little harder with Roman, and a little more distant with Deceit, but….now? It almost reminded Virgil of the now, too. With how, despite Draco and Phillip being an item, the way Draco wrapped his arms around the Playwright’s waist, the way that the Artist was making Phillip laugh. 

It was kinda surprising that Phillip  _ could _  laugh. Virgil gave Roman a sidelong glance, noting the bags beneath his eyes and the frank paleness of his face. If time ran longer in the Imagination, how long had he perceived himself in here? And how much of that time had been spent laying down, instead of working? No wonder his anxiety was mounting. It seemed Deceit was right; Roman’s insecurities had returned.

“I can see that,” Virgil murmured.

Roman smiled at him, just barely strained, then turned back to the group and clapped his hands. “Alright, everyone, I think I’ll be taking my leave,” he said, as they quieted and faced him, “Does anyone need me for—”

“I DREW YOU A PICTURE!” Gavin exclaimed, jumping off of where he was climbing one of the tapestries and jogging to the side, “Wait, I drew a picture for, uh, technically you, but I think Mister Morality would like it more! I hope Mister Logic and Mister Deceit like it, too!”

He picked up the first piece of paper he’d been doodling on and returned, handing it off not to Roman, but to Virgil, who took it with careful fingers. It was a drawing of all of them — the Sides, and Gavin — all holding hands and smiling and standing beside the castle. It was a childish drawing, not much in ways of artistry, but it was so full of heart and adoration. 

Oh, yeah, Patton would love to see this kid again. Might help Roman take the edge off to see them interact; Virgil could already imagine how soft that shit’d be. 

“Patt’s gonna love it,” he promised, and Gavin clapped excitedly. 

“D’ya think he’ll come to visit?” Gavin asked. 

The Playwright rolled his eyes. “We don’t want to ask them for too much, Superboy, they’re busy Sides,” he said. 

“Don’t be such a defeatist, Marlowe,” the Artist wrapped his arm around the Playwright’s shoulders, grinning lazily, “I know you still want Logan to give you the down-low on existentialism in Sherlock Holmes.”

The Playwright, or Marlowe, immediately turned red. He looked quite different as well, no longer wearing a vest and tie, though he was still pretty professional. He had on red suspenders over his white shirt, holding up black slacks, a gold and red bowtie around his neck with the ribbon patterned on. His hair was also a darker brown, pinned to the side as it used to be, with a golden clip, and his cheeks were dotted with light freckles.

He turned around, a rolled up script appearing in his hand, and gently thwacked the Artist on the head. “Stop making fun of me,” he grumbled.

When the Artist started laughing, though, he joined in with his own grin. He poked the Artist’s cheek with the script he held. “Besides, David,” he said, a gleam in his eyes, “You’d love for any of them to pose for a painting. Don’t pretend I’m alone in my lionization.”

That got David to straighten up and elbow him. “Fight me, M-C-Square,” he joked, then kissed Marlowe’s head while Gavin came up to him.

“I think Virgil likes the art,” Gavin stage-whispered to him, “Does that mean I get to paint with you?”

David snickered and rubbed his hair, getting him to giggle. Virgil tilted his head, trying to discern a difference in David’s outfit. There wasn’t much, save for, well. The socks and sandals. The biggest difference was his face, fuller with a stronger jaw and slightly darker eyebags. His hair was so long it was up in a messy bun, though the hair tie didn’t hold everything. Wisps dropped around his face, which he brushed back when he pushed up his glasses.

“Maybe tomorrow, if Thief’ll let you,” he said, raising an eyebrow up at Eric, “I heard Cadence is cooking dinner.”

“Like I’d let that fool-igan anywhere near an open flame,” Eric rolled his eyes, casting Cadence a sidelong glance with a small smirk.

Meanwhile, Cadence gasped, a hand flying to his chest once more. “Kitty Burglar, darling, how could you say such a thing?!” 

“Well, it’s not like you’ve never sent a fireball through the second floor,” Eric deadpanned, earning giggles from all the rest.

Cadence just pouted in response, stomping one of his feet while scowling comically at him. “Hey! That wasn’t for cooking! That was a spell!”

“A spell that went wrong, I assume,” Roman asked, and Cadence nodded.

“Yeah! It’s hard, inventing that stuff! Sometimes it just gets a little too,” he winked at Virgil, who snorted, “Fiery.”

The other adult Romans boo’ed him, Draco nudging his arm even in mock-disgust. Cadence bowed, laughter playing on his lips. It was nice to hear that Cadence could create things, though, even if it was a bit of an explosive process. 

All the banter was making Roman a little more at ease, it seemed. Huh. Virgil stuffed his hands further into his hoodie pockets. Guessed that tracked…? 

There was a lot of guessing today. 

Not saying it was bad or anything, but Roman was upset, Virgil could smell it off of him, and all these changes were going way too fast for Virgil to handle. He kinda just wanted to lay down now. This was enough socialization that he didn’t sign up for.

“Okay,” Virgil hummed to himself, taking in the humor of everyone around him.

There was one person that wasn’t entirely humorous, though, so Virgil leaned over to him. “How’re you feeling?" he whispered in Roman’s, worry seeping into his voice.

He didn’t want to skim over the aura sitting around his boyfriend. Roman huffed, and looked back across the others, all talking amongst themselves. Virgil watched him run his hands through his hair, a motion that Virgil had learned meant he was stressed or tense.

And, truth be told, Roman was. They were going to be shooting another video soon, and he wasn’t fully sold on the premise. A follow up to the courtroom debacle? He knew he helped write the damn script, but acting it out the last time had been so taxing. Even fictionally, the thought of having to give up such a wonderful dream….he hoped that this would tie up the lose ends left after that episode. Plus, he hoped Remus wouldn’t bother them so much. He loved his brother, but if he snuck up and stabbed Roman’s ankle during a shoot again, Roman would have to just cut his hands off. That’s how the world worked. 

That was assuming Roman didn’t fuck up the shoot on his own. He didn’t even need Remus’ help to be a disaster, a failure.

But he had to be honest. That was something he’d been working on with the others — honesty, being up front with his own insecurity. It was difficult, to say the least, but it was….happening. 

“If I am being honest,” Roman exhaled, hands sliding to sit behind his neck as he exhaled, “I’m fairly nervous about this upcoming shoot.”

“Why?” Virgil asked, simply. 

Roman shrugged, then glanced at Virgil sidelong himself. He couldn’t really explain it. It was a mix of anxiousness, his own special version, but coupled with….well, he didn’t want to worry Virgil, but—

“A sense of inadequacy,” Phillip seemed to be on the same wavelength, both hands resting on the top of his cane as he watched Virgil and Roman converse.

The others in the troupe quieted when Phillip interrupted, all slowly looking up at Virgil and Roman themselves. Phillip paid them no mind, focusing on Roman himself. “Roman, you work yourself to the bone,” he smiled sympathetically, despite Roman’s own inability to respond, surprised at the softness in Phillip’s voice, “You should lay down.” 

Roman scoffed, and Phillip poked him in the foot with his cane. “I’m being serious. You overwork yourself and it makes you feel more self-critical, so you work yourself harder, so you become more self-critical. I should know,” he smirked when Roman spluttered, and continued, “You’re much less like your typical over-the-top self.”

“Are you calling me extra,” Roman crossed his arms, trying now to backtrack out of the honesty, “If extra IS extra, then I’m just right for myself!”

“You’re incredibly extra comparative to a regular person,” Phillip also crossed his arms, a similar petty smirk on his face, “Considering I’m less than a part of a person, it’s a miracle you can’t figure that out.”

“Maybe I’d figure it out if it were true, but it’s not. I’m devilishly handsome, and heavenly blessed,” Roman struck a pose, fanning his hand through his hair, and Virgil huffed some laughter from his nose in response. 

Phillip rolled his eyes, though, and seemed to acknowledge that the tension had alleviated at least a little. Draco picked up where he left off, though, and patted Roman hard on the back. 

Virgil leaned away when Roman stumbled forward and pivoted on the ball of his foot. He didn’t actively do anything in retaliation, though, so Draco just smiled wider at him. “You know you’re great, and I know you’re great! Because you just are! So keep doing what you’re doing, and I know you’ll do what you’re doing great. Okay?”

Roman sighed, loosening his muscles and patting Draco’s arm. They did mean the best for him. “Okay, okay,” he murmured, smiling slightly, until Draco picked him up and hugged him in one of his slightly bone-crushing hugs. “Okay, wait, down, down—!” 

Draco just laughed, but he did set Roman down eventually. As Roman chided him and Phillip, who was paying only a modicum of attention, Virgil leaned away. He couldn’t really tell how deep the relationship between Roman and his, what, were they his Sides? 

Holy shit, Roman made himself Sides. 

Dude. Virgil rested his hands on the back of his neck and watched Gavin laugh along with Cadence at something. They were all just Roman’s Sides, that made so much sense. 

“You’re starring awful hard at that wall, Virge,” Virgil blinked, looking up at David, who was watching him quietly. 

David grinned, then shot him finger guns. It seemed he’d relaxed up a bit, too, over the past however long it’d actually been. A year? 

“I’m just thinking. This’ a lot to take in,” Virgil shook his head and stuffed his hands back into his pockets, content to not have to think about the Imagination’s intricacies. 

After all, they’d definitely learned that not all that is imagined makes sense. David shrugged, looking back at the people talk. “Yeah, it is. Kinda weird to think of how different everything’s gotten,” he fixed his glasses, then took them off to clean with the edge of his sweater, “I mean, last time you saw us, we weren’t exactly as close as we all are now. Is that a sign of healing, though?”

You know, Virgil didn’t know, but he sure hoped that that was what it meant. Whatever tension over the unknown that was knotting in his chest was unloosened by that single thought. Perhaps the ability to move forward, to change beyond the recognition required for specific events, was a result of healing? To become something unrecognizable from before. Not something unmarred by experience, but something lovingly shaped by hands picking up the pieces. 

It was a comforting thought, and if David believed that, maybe everyone else by slight proxies too, then Virgil could believe in it as well. David smiled at him and shifted his own hands in his pockets. “I think it is,” he said quietly.

“Oh, David,” Marlowe said, turning away from Phillip to converse, “We should be heading back soon. You wanted to get a head start on the daydream we discussed?”

David brightened at the mention of the daydream, grinning and clapping once before beginning a ramble. “Of course! Last time’s was good, real focused on the world-building and sliding us into a dystopia, but I feel like we gotta find a way to make it more episodic. What else’re we gonna think in the shower? I can build out a setting for the next few parts if you can come up with some plot points, Marl-darl’.”

Marlowe smiled, and followed David down the hall. He stopped once, turning and waving at everyone. “See you on Friday for macaroni and cheese!” he called down the hall.

Draco gave him two thumbs up. Beside him, Phillip bristled. Oh, boy, Virgil thought as he hid a snicker behind his hand. Roman laughed pretty openly, too.

“You are not allowed to destroy my kitchen,” Phillip stated, crossing his arms in a more stern manner, “And, if you do make a mess, you’re cleaning it.”

“Done, and done, I wouldn’t wanna mess with your stress space,” Draco wrapped his arms around Phillip’s shoulders, pulling him backward against his chest. 

Phillip leaned back, opening his mouth a little to respond before snapping it shut and thinking some more. Cadence leaned toward him, too, and grinned excitedly. He could sense the chance to cause some chaos in the kitchen and, boy, he was NOT letting that opportunity slip away. Not when Eric wouldn’t let him cook alone! Ooh, oh, maybe…. 

“Plea~ase, Princey, please please,” he clasped both hands by his left cheek and tilted his head.

Phillip’s eye flicked to Roman, but Roman only met him with a shrug. Bold of Phillip to think that Roman was responsible. 

Fine. Phillip slouched against Draco, sighing. “Fine,” he waved his hand dismissively, “But, as I said, if you make a mess you are in charge of cleaning it.”

“And if you let Gavin use the stove again, then I’m shutting it down,” Eric threatened, shifting his cloak. 

Oh, yeah, no, they remembered the last time Gavin was allowed to touch a stove. It hadn’t turned out super bad, perse, it wasn’t like the situation didn’t get resolved. It was just that the ensuing hole in Phillip’s ceiling was way too large for him to have to deal with. 

Luckily, it seemed that Cadence and Draco could remember that debacle, too, because they both waved their hands. “No, no, Gavin’s only gonna be taste testing it,” Draco promised. 

“I get to taste test?!” Gavin jumped in excitement, clapping, “Hell yeah!”

“Watch your language, you’re twelve,” Phillip hummed. 

Gavin stopped, scowling at Phillip in that way that children did when they knew they were in the wrong but wanted to pretend, at least a little, that they were right. He put his hands on his hips and stuck his tongue out, and Phillip then simply blepped. 

He was masterful with children, because that got Gavin to break down in laughter. He grabbed Cadence’s hand, tugging with both hands. “C’mon, Bard, we gotta go home to get ready! We can test out some mac’y and cheese’y recipes so when we make the ultra cheese, it’s better than ever!” 

“You’re also not allowed to blow up the Tree,” Eric crossed his arms, but followed Cadence when he eventually turned around. 

He turned around, swooped Gavin into his arms, and spun him around in a circle while Gavin laughed. Cadence laughed, too. 

They were so carefree. Maybe they had gotten better, Virgil thought, as Cadence set Gavin down and twirled him one last time, before skipping in front of Eric and holding his hands. “I think we won’t set anything on any fire! You can watch and see, promise, Oceans Ten.”

Eric raised an eyebrow. “Ten?” he asked.

Cadence grinned, and then kicked Eric’s ankle out from beneath him, catching him in a flourishing dip. “Out of ten,” he whispered, kissing Eric quickly — a move that, surprisingly, Virgil recognized. 

Roman did that shit to him the other day, in the kitchen. Eric was turning almost as red as he had back then, and he pulled himself back upright and hid his face in Cadence’s shoulder, grumbling just barely unintelligibly, but involving the words “favorite idiot” just before he pulled his cloak up around his face.

“Booooo,” Gavin chided, and Draco and Phillip stifled laughter, “You’re nerds!”

Cadence looked up and winked at Virgil. “Hey, if it works on Roman’s emo then it’ll work on mine,” he joked, pulling Eric close again and swaying, “How about we talk about this at home, hm?”

“Fine,” Eric hid his face in his hands, rubbing a little bit before sticking one hand out, still not looking at Roman or Virgil or Draco or Phillip, “Gavin?”

Cadence let go of Eric just in time for Gavin to grab one of his hands as well as Eric’s outstretched one. He swung their arms happily and pulled them out, letting go of Cadence to turn and wave to Virgil and Roman. 

“Bye! I’ll see you later, Mister Anxiety!” he said, before they disappeared around the corner, presumably toward the exit. 

Virgil didn’t know the castle’s lay out, but he assumed that was how it worked. He turned to Roman, who smiled and nodded his head toward the stairs. “We should head back too. I don’t want Deceit to get his scales in a twist if we’re both gone.”

“You should invite Deceit back! And all of them! God, it really has been a while,” Draco laughed, rubbing Phillip’s shoulders gently, “D’ya wanna head back to your study, sweets?”

Phillip snorted, then nodded, motioning toward the stairwell. “Sure,” he said, starting toward the stairs, “How about we reflect upon some of the older episode ideas, Roman? I can, ah, identify some of the misgivings. And then Draco and Cadence can reel it in.”

Roman’s shoulders loosened. He looped his arm around Virgil’s, who held his hand. “That sounds great. Until the next time?” he asked. 

Draco nodded, bowing quickly before skipping after Phillip. His tail flicked toward Virgil and Roman, as though waving, and he disappeared quickly after Phillip up the stairs. 

This was all quite the ordeal. Virgil hadn’t really known what to expect, when he stepped into the Imagination earlier, but it wasn’t really this. He hadn’t seen this coming. But it was nice to know that everyone was still around, and that they helped Roman, in the ways that they could. They were kinda like a support group. 

Plus, the others would be excited to meet them. But that was a discussion for another time. Perhaps another story or few. But, again, Virgil reminded himself, the fourth wall existed for a reason.

For now, Virgil’s hand tightened around Romans comfortingly. They were going home. 

“....I’m better now,” Roman whispered, catching Virgil off guard, “Right?”

Virgil looked up at him. He brushed Roman’s hair out of his face, watching the slight blush that appeared. Oh, his prince.

Oh. His prince. He ran his hand through the hair on the side of Roman’s head and cupped the back of his neck, kissing him carefully.

_ His _  prince, his healing, improving, beautifully strong, motherfucking CHIVALROUS prince. 

Roman had been doing so, so good — they both separated from the kiss, Roman watching Virgil with a red blush brighter than his own sash. He grinned sheepishly and ducked his head against Virgil’s shoulder, and Virgil held him closer, by the shoulders.

Virgil was so proud of how hard he was trying to do good by himself, by Thomas and by all of them.

“Healing’s a work in progress. And I think you’re doing great,” Virgil smiled, small and so, so proud, “Let’s head back. I think we’re gonna make it in time for dinner.”

Roman chuckled, leading Virgil to the door that he came out of originally. He closed the doors again and, as he did, the same placard that had been on the door Virgil originally exited appeared on the wall beside these doors. Interesting that Roman had the ability to move it. 

He opened the door, up into his own bedroom, and Roman led Virgil back out into their world, hand in hand. Happy, as he had been every day, to be whole. 

_ Fin. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again, so much <3 i hope you liked the final chapter and i hope you liked the boyos!!! i couldn't leave them just hanging and, honestly, i'm so pleased with all of their names. just in case anyone's wondering, i did a lil' breakdown down here of my internal debate over their names (my one requirement was that everyone have a two-syllable name):
> 
> "draco" — etymology for "dragon" 
> 
> "phillip" — apparently it means "friend of horses," but i chose it in reference to disney's prince phillip, who killed maleficent uwu 
> 
> "gavin" — 100% in reference to Gavin, the meme kid, and to Sir Gawain of King Arthur's table!! 
> 
> "eric" — old norse name meaning "ever, always" and "ruler," also arguably one of the most badass disney princes. also almost named him arthur, for the above, but stuck with eric because it was a little less royal of a name. he's a prince, not a king!
> 
> "cadence" — a song-related word meaning "rhythm," which was pretty solid, but i thought it was cool that you can find cadence in decadence, the moral decline in society due to excessive luxury. sounded like something bard would partake in and/or support 
> 
> "david" — in reference to michelangelo's sculpture, david
> 
> "marlowe" — in reference to one of shakespeare's contemporary rival playwrights, christopher marlowe
> 
> hope you like them, and i hope you liked the story, and i hope you have a great day!!! i love you so very much <3

**Author's Note:**

> well, you've made it to the end!!! congrats!!! 
> 
> this has been a really wild ride, i’m gonna be honest. i didn’t actually expect to finish this. nor did i expect so many people to actually read it. before getting into sanders sides, i’d been in a really, really rough spot. things led to things, friendships and relationships fell through, and it culminated into me not having written creatively in about a year. probably more. so i was really surprised that i had any motivation to write for sanders sides. unsure of if it’d even be any good, or if anyone would wanna read it, i decided “fuck it” and posted some stuff. i didn’t expect chivalry to get this long. and i didn’t expect so many people to like it as much as i liked it. 
> 
> everything in this storyline's done, all epilogues are out!!! thank you so much for following me and roman on this journey, and i hope you the most wonderful of days <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


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